the fic i'm writing now may be the last fic i ever write on here.
that sounds really dramatic. this is not intended as a negative read. but like i said before, i feel a bit like i've outgrown this site and the lack of response from people on here is killing my creativity.
(a lot of you are absolute sweethearts, and i see you and i love you).
but i really like the idea for this last one, and i want to see it through. i want to up my writing game, and writing fan fiction hasn't really been giving me the challenge i need. maybe i need to create the challenge myself. but on the flip side, it means that the stories i choose to write may be less palatable and less easy to digest than what most people come on this site to read (in my experience). i feel very restrained by the system of validation that has been created by the culture on here.
maybe i'll just move to ao3, where people seem to be more open to other sorts of stories. maybe i'll just stop writing fan fiction altogether and write new stuff. maybe i'll just stop writing.
i don't know. but i feel like i need to tell someone, and so i'm gonna say it here. even though most people who see this won't read it or won't care. and that's fine, too. we've all got our own stuff going on.
but i feel very alone on this site. there are a lot of people i wish i could get to know on here, and i've tried, and for some reason it's just not worked. and i hate the stuff i've written so far, and i don't know how to make it good enough.
what i'm trying to say is; the next fic i post, if i even post it, may be the last one i ever post on here. and if you're wondering why, look no further.
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the madonna | chapter two: delusions of goats and fireplaces
summary: It's 1985. The English countryside swells with the day's remains of midsummer heat as you make your way towards the gate, longs strands of grass nipping at your calves.
It's a good time to get away. Old and distant family friends have taken you in against your wildest imagination, following torturous personal circumstances and a recent mental breakdown. Here, where you can live with purpose among people who care about you, you can slowly begin to rest and recover in the secluded privacy of the Burrow.
Now would be a really bad time for you to run into the most traumatic ex-fling of your life, wouldn't it?
pairing: remus lupin x reader
genre: non-magic!AU; farmhand remus!AU
word count: 4k
warnings/tags: blood, injury, mental breakdown, mental health issues (mostly anxiety and depression), shitty parents, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, swearing, mentions of violence, orphanhood, a lot of self-deprecation, tension, pining, arguing, etc.
author's note: cannot believe it's been two years. yikes. have not proofread. enjoy!
chapter index
masterlist
chapter two | delusions of goats and fireplaces
Mollyβs cut a stack of bacon butties so tall it rivals her husband.Β
They balance on a simple, blue plate on the kitchen table, teetering dangerously over the edge like some top-heavy tube man. Molly says theyβre out in one of the far fields today, clearing it out for one of the neighbouring farms. It means a bit of a trek, and it means you need to find something else to put these sandwiches in.Β
You donβt hate the walk up. Youβre restless despite your constant fatigue, itching for movement and sweat and muscle ache. Straws and grasses brush at your ankles as you hike through the parched grasslands, tupperware tucked under one arm and a cooler bag and a flask of Horlicks in the other. Youβve never been up here yourself before; Arthur pointed you in the direction of the Lovegoodβs a couple of days ago, up past the swamps and through the clearing on the other side. Itβs mostly uphill after that, through sloping fields of yellow that have suffered the beating of the sun, and wood lanes overshadowed by leafy giants, cool in the summer heat.Β
Itβs overcast today, for the first time in well over a week, but that doesnβt stop the heat rising from the earth like steam trapped in a saucepan, clouds forming a heavy lid over the dome of your existence. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears, your heavy pants the only sound in an otherwise windless expanse. A bead of sweat trickles down your temple, rubbed away by a brisk forearm that you can barely bear to lift. All the clothes you have, bar what you had on your back the day you arrived, are hand-me-downs that Mollyβs been generous enough to offer you. Itβs almost exclusively skirts; long and flowy with patterns in browns, greens, and oranges that match her hair. Long skirts that she was going to give away anyway, so you donβt have to worry about getting grass stains or dirty marks on them. Your thighs have begun to chafe and as much as youβre enjoying the pain now, like some sort of sweet release and a reminder that youβre alive, youβre afraid of how youβre gonna feel after. Because right now, beneath the bright grey sky and fields that span on as far as the eye can see, itβs hard to picture an βafterβ.Β
But the after finally comes, and it comes in the form of two dark dots moving above the stone walls in the distance. Theyβre by a tree stump near the outskirts of the field when you reach the wall. You can see what theyβve been clearing, now; someoneβs been fly-tipping. Thereβs a path leading into some bushes near the biggest heap of junk; the road they drove up on must be just out the other side.Β
Arthur smiles brightly when he sees you, giving you an animated wave despite the ruddy cheeks that indicate his fatigue.Β
βExcellent timing, my dear. Come!β
Remus is too far away for you to see the look on his face, and maybe you donβt want to look. But youβre happy to take a breather as they make their way towards you, your mouth dry and your breathing almost hoarse. Youβve barely had cause to see him since the bucket incident a few days ago.Β
Arthur reaches you first, gesturing to the stone wall that separates you.Β
βItβs a bit of a tall one, Iβm afraid, and thereβs no way round unless you walk all the way up to the car, but Remusβll help you over in a jiffy. Wonβt you, lad?β
Remus grumbles something unintelligible in response.
βHere, Iβll take thatβ¦β
Free of the tupperware, youβve a hand free to shift your skirt. The seamβs twisted round to your front, and the label thatβs supposed to be at the back is now digging itchily into the flesh of your hip. You smooth the fabric down, ignoring how prickly and oddly numb your fingertips feel.
βWell, come on, then.β
You blink stupidly. Youβd forgotten about the logistics of getting over. Admittedly, climbing a wall might be the thing that finally tips your fatigue over the edge.Β
βWhatβ¦ What do you want me to-β
βOh, for fuck-β
He presses his palms against the top of the wall and pushes himself up over it with ease, landing beside you in a second. You turn to face him, but next thing you know his hands are pressing into your waist and heβs hoisted you up in the air like some rag doll, seating you atop the uneven stones. The straps of the cooler bag dig into your palms as you clumsily swing your legs over the other side and you concentrate on the burn for the second it takes him to jump back over. He doesnβt need to help you down, itβs just a simple drop, but his hand makes its way to the small of your back like itβs on instinct.Β
You stand so close together when your feet touch the ground that you can smell the sweat and humidity off him, but itβs a grounding smell. He catches you when you wobble, just for a brief second. Thatβs when he realises where his hand is, and he pulls back sharply.Β
βI trust Her Highness can make her own way over,β he mutters, stalking away before you can say another word.
Gnats buzz at your ear and you bring your wrist up to rub them away as you watch him. When you finally catch up, you set the tupperware on the stump, handing Arthur the Horlicks flask and dropping the cooler bag on the ground.Β
βOoh,β Arthur says, smiling widely and hurrying to unscrew the cap. He draws a deep sniff through his nose and sighs blissfully. "A cup for you, my boy?β
Remus looks less than impressed.Β
βHave you got nowt else for us?β
He doesnβt even look up at you when he says it, just turns his attention back to the cloth in his hands and the dirt heβs trying to rub off them. Well then.
βThereβs water or Ribena,β you say blandly, nudging the cooler bag over to him with your foot. βThatβs your lot.β
You donβt see if he reacts, turning your back on him and prying open the lid.Β
Then, from over your shoulder and with disinterest;
βTa.β
You watch Arthur as he leans back in his foldable lawn chair. Should you sit down? Are you supposed to? Your endeavours have caught up with you and youβre exhausted, blinking sluggishly.Β
βWhat time is it?β you wonder, distracted by a small bird flailing above a tree just down the way.Β
βWhat do I look like, a bloody sundial?β
Youβre half surprised he heard you as you werenβt sure you actually said it out loud. If you had the energy to care, you would. Instead, you sit down on the grass beside Arthurβs chair and tuck your knees to your side.Β
βMust be awful for the Lovegoods to have people fly-tipping on their lot,β you say, in an effort to make conversation.Β
βOh, no, dear,β Arthur replies animatedly in-between bites, βthis is all theirs. They like to collect things, the Lovegoods. Theyβve just run out of places to put things.β
βA binβ is the first place that comes to mind when you spot the tattered mattress and the curled wires of an old radiator, but knowing the state of Arthurβs shed, you donβt dare say it out loud. But as your eyes accidentally land on Remus, you know youβre not the only one.Β
You didnβt mean to look at him.
The odd chew and swallow are the only things to be heard for the next while. You sit twisting blades of grass and pulling them up, plaiting them together in a makeshift braid that falls apart when you try to knot it. The blades are too dry; they split and break and fray.
You almost lose track of the light as you stumble down the slopes again, veering into tree trunks and tripping over roots and dips and holes. Arthur had asked if you wanted to stay and catch a lift back with them in the truck, but then Remus said something snarky - you canβt remember what - and you figured youβd be better off just heading off yourself. Your eyes glaze over as you find relief in the dusk, head pounding at a steady rhythm matched by your footsteps and ticking away the time it takes you to make it down.Β
By the time youβve stumbled over the doorstep to the kitchen, Mollyβs gripped your arm and shoved the back of her hand against your forehead. Seconds later, youβre lying face down on a mattress in a cool, dark room. Just as your eyes begin to black out, you feel your gut squeeze around itself.Β
Did you eat today?
Straight out the gate, your headβs ringing like a bitch.Β
Thereβs a bee, or a wasp, or something, caught between the curtain and the window pane, buzzing loudly. You donβt know how it got there; you donβt crack the window at night, specifically to keep the bugs out, but judging by the foul taste in your mouth, the sweat on your brow, and the way your eyes screw shut at the slightest glimpse of sunlight bouncing off the wooden walls in your room, you might have to think of something else.Β
You feel nauseous as you shift towards the end of the bed, clutching the bedsheet feebly to your chest. Your hands feel kinda numb. It takes you a few tries to get the window lock open; your hands keep slipping off the small, metal latch. You donβt realise how hot it is until the first trickle of cool breeze seeps in through the crack. Under your arms, your breasts, your knees, youβre slick with sweat, head throbbing heavily.Β
Unsurprisingly, Remus is nowhere to be seen when you finally tiptoe out of your room. The grooves of the wooden floor are cool and uneven against the soles of your feet as you make your way outside. The front door creaks something awful when you undo the lock and push it open. Rough fibres of cloth and bristles scrub away at your skin and under your nails. The waterβs delightfully cold when you finally bring the basin over your head and wash away the soap and grime.
Thereβs no sign of him at the big house, either. Thatβs three days heβs been away now. Havenβt seen him since you caught a glimpse of him over your shoulder, shunting an old mattress onto the back of Arthurβs truck as you set off down the sloping fields again. Something in your brain tugs at the memory of the way the sunlight glinted off his bare arms.Β
You look around the ground floor; Molly and Arthur have taken the kids up to Mollyβs cousinβs for a few days for a family reunion. You barely remembered anything the morning after you passed out, waking up in a dark, musty room in the top landing from Molly tugging gently at your arm, filling you in on the impromptu plans and informing you that there was a casserole for you and Remus left on the stove for later. You half-thought youβd dreamt it when you woke up again hours later, only fitting the puzzle pieces together when you realised youβd been conscious for five minutes without hearing a single raised voice. Itβs strange to see the place so empty, but the opportunity to give it a good airing out without screaming children and clutter flying all over the place is too good an opportunity to miss.
Youβve really been working this place the past three days; clutter is almost completely gone, all you have left is the floors and carpets, maybe some curtains, and opening every window in this building to breathe new life into it. Your hands are raw from soaps and detergents, pins and needles prick at your arms and legs. You take it easy, moving down the hall with careful and intentional steps. Your clothes smell of sweat and theyβre stiff with grime, and you realise theyβre the ones you wore yesterday. You donβt think of much while you eat. Not much comes to mind, really, other than how tired you feel and your desperate need to do some laundry.Β
You set the swollen laundry basket down next to the washer. You donβt know how the dayβs gone by so fast. There is not a speck of dust left in the place. Turns out itβs a lot easier to do a deep clean when you donβt have seven children running around the place every hour of every day. Maybe thatβd be the way to do it, you think as you shove clothes into the machine. Make it a regular thing. Now that youβre helping out, it seems like a missed opportunity.Β
You shrug out of your clothes, peeling your bra and underwear off and tossing them into the now almost-full machine. Rhythmic humming vibrates through the floorboards as you make your way to the airing cupboard for a towel. Lukewarm water soothes your skin, fingertips easing the headache youβve been staving off all day as you lather and rinse. You get distracted as you dry yourself off, pressing softly at the skin on your cheeks and under your eyes to bring some feeling back in your face. You stare at the mirror for a while. The washerβs done by the time you make it back downstairs; your underwear and bra are almost dry from the spin cycle so you pull them on, ditch the towel, and pull the rest of the clothes into the basin.Β
The sun is on the last of its maximum effort when you push open the kitchen door and make your way to the clothes line. Thereβs no one around; other than Molly and Arthurβs lot, you havenβt seen another soul since you arrived. Todayβs been an absolute sweltering mess; staying indoors has meant youβve had at least some semblance of shade, and you canβt imagine many others are braving the scorching temperatures to leg it all the way into the middle of nowhere to drop by in the middle of the work week.Β
You hang the clothes on the line as the sun slowly begins to set, relishing in the cool relief of fresh air on your skin thatβs still slightly warm with sunburn. You rest a hand on the back of a plastic garden chair as you watch the colours flit across the sky, and in this moment you feel like you could just stay here, right here, forever. The deep breath you take in through your nose is sweet and full, calming your beating heart as you gently exhale. Itβs just you, the sun, and the birds flying in a pattern only they know over the tops of the trees in the distance. You watch as the tip of the tail of the last bird disappears over the horizon.Β
βSome view to come home to, that.β
Shit.Β
You forgot about him.
Your neck almost cracks as you whip around. Heβs leaning against the corner of the house - he must have come from the town road - arms crossed with narrowed, unkind eyes. Itβs glaringly obvious that heβs not talking about the birds, nor is he talking about the sunset thatβs nearing its end behind you.Β
You grab the nearest thing you see, ripping it off the line and bolting for the kitchen. The plastic pegs scatter among the tufts of grass, a rogue sock slipping off the line in the scuffle. He pushes himself off the wall in less than a heartbeat and sprints, beating you to the door by a second and reaching to lean against the doorframe just as you try to push through. He doesnβt budge. You tug the dress over your head, hair tousled and eyes looking anywhere but him as you ignore the bits of gravel that dig into the soles of your feet. You try to push through again, a bit more sophisticated now in your damp decency, but he still does not budge.Β
You feel his gaze on your face. It burns. All of it. Your skin, your hair, your nails, your eyeballs, it all burns. Youβve half a mind to grab the bristled brush from the farmhouse and start scrubbing until you see red. Your skin itches with it. You canβt even say heβs looking at you cheekily, not even with a semblance of lust. Itβs sheer arrogance, eyes sparkling with the delight of having put you in a position of distress. Like itβs a treat for him to make you feel this way.Β
βLet me though,β you mutter, eyes locked on the kitchen beyond his outstretched arm.Β
βOh, now-β
βIβm serious, let-β
βWhy the rush? I mean, youβve been fine out here for so long,β he says, feigning concern. The hubris in his voice makes you feel physically ill. So, heβs been watching you for a while, then. The greater the effort, the greater the reward, it would seem.Β
βTeaβs not gonna put itself on,β you insist, gripping his forearm weakly and attempting to pull it off the frame. Any relief you felt on your skin is long gone, the burning, sweltering sensation has returned tenfold.
After a minute or two he indulges you, standing up so you can just about squeeze past.Β
βWouldnβt want to go hungry, would we?β
You ignore him as you pull a saucepan out from under the counter and accidentally slam it onto the stovetop. You try not to think of him standing there, watching your every movement. The day that had seemed so liberating suddenly seems so far away. A thought strikes you as you grab the container out of the fridge, has he been on the drink?Β
You scoop spoonfuls of casserole into the saucepan. More than half of it remains in the container once youβre done; Molly had calculated portions for the both of you, but he hasnβt been in at all.Β
Your hands move on autopilot, twisting unsuccessfully at the lid of the jar of radishes Molly insisted you finish before they got home.Β
"Come on," you mutter under your breath, slamming the lip of the jar on the edge of the wooden table.Β
"Well, Jesus, don't whack it like that,β Remus huffs, snatching it from your grip. You hadnβt even noticed him cross the room. He pops the lid off and hands it back to you wordlessly, taking a seat at the table and pulling a paperback from his jacket pocket.Β
He reads while he eats. Heβs half done before you even pick up your fork. You push your food around your plate, the dayβs heat putting a permanent damper on most of your appetite, humiliation taking care of the rest. Thereβs a low hum in the air.
βYou make this?β
Itβs so monotonous youβre not even sure he said anything.Β
βHm?β
He swallows, eyes not lifting from the yellowed pages.Β
βDβyou make this?β
You stare at him for a second. Your shoulders tense; undoubtedly heβs found something to criticise you for.
βWhy?β
He frowns, then looks up. Then he shrugs.
βItβs nice.β
You blink.Β
βOh.β
You stare at each other for a minute, before he raises his eyebrows as if to say βwell?β
βNo,β you say slowly. βNo. Uh, Molly did.β
He grunts in response.Β
You watch as he takes both his plate and your own and heads over to the sink. Plates washed, he dries his hands with the towel slung over one of the chairs and picks up his book. Your eyes donβt leave him for a second as he takes a seat on the step leading out to the garden. He stretches his legs out, back leaning against the doorframe and the book settled snugly between his fingers, resting in his palm.Β
A strange feeling comes over you as you sit and watch him. Itβs a sensitive thing, a bodyβsΒ memory. Sitting in this kitchen, staring out as the final remnants of a sunset paint the sky, you feel tugs at the end of your mind. Flashes of young children running about the house, barefoot with dirty soles from playing in the grass all day. Plastic cups with faded floral patterns on them, resting on the kitchen table, filled with water turned lukewarm in the heat. And a small, slender, freckled boy with green eyes and dark blond hair, hands outstretched to pull you with him. Eyes wide and eager to show you the ropes, the feeling of bark underneath your palms and scrapes that bleed and burn on your knees.Β
You see the boy again, but heβs taller now, more confident. Heβs starting to grow into his features now. He avoids looking at you when he can, clammy hands no longer outstretched, no longer eager to pull you with him. Content to leave you behind. The sun still beats down on the grass, its yellowing tips crunching slightly under your toes.Β
You see him again, older and broader, but this is where your tolerance ends. You cannot, will not reminisce. You tear your eyes away from him and wipe your palms on your dress.Β
But itβs too late. Thereβs a sharp pain in your stomach, and youβve wandered into dangerous territory. However you knew him before, however he knew you, itβs gone. Gone are the eyes that used to steal quick glances when they thought no one noticed. Gone are the slight and innocent touches, gone is the feeling of warmth, the feeling of mattering, the feeling of hope. Gone is the boy who made you feel like you meant something to him.Β
Your heart aches. Then you pull yourself up. You may not know him now, but you knew him then. And surely that must count for something.
The breeze that sweeps across your skin as you step over the ledge and take a seat on the step is cool and fresh. You stretch your legs out, crossing at the ankles, and lean against the other side of the doorframe. The ache of the dayβs physical efforts starts to sink in, and you let your eyelids slowly fall shut.
You hear the light brushes as he turns each page. Once the last light starts to disappear from behind your eyelids, you slowly open them again, turning your head slightly so your eyes land on him. His features are poorly lit, his outline glowing from the golden reach of the kitchen light. A slight frown makes itself known as his eyes skim over the page.
βWhat?β he says quietly, looking over in your direction but not meeting your eyeline.Β
You didnβt think heβd noticed. You stifle a grunt as you push yourself off the corroded stone step, small, sharp bits of gravel sticking into your palms.Β
βJust thought you might want some company,β you mutter.Β
Without looking his way, you start walking and donβt stop until you reach the farm house.
Molly says you can move in permanently if you want. That theyβd be happy to have you, but they just donβt know what youβd want with a derelict, old farmhouse. She doesnβt mean it. You canβt imagine she means it. Sheβs just being polite. But itβs sparked a train of thought in you, a train of thought that for the first time ever imagines a reality in which you have a life; a job, family, maybe even friends if you play your cards right. A reality where you have other people around you, who actually want to be around you and find you interesting, and funny, and smart.Β Β Β
You find yourself imagining pieces of furniture in the front room, lighting fires in the stove and the smells of stews and pies and fresh air and green grass. Maybe a dog, or a goat, or something. Maybe a cat. You could get to town from here; Molly and Arthur would definitely let you catch a lift in the mornings, and you could walk to theirs from here no problem. Maybe you could get a bike. Youβd need one to get in and out of town, to do your shopping. You could put a basket on the front, or have Arthur fasten a wooden crate to it. Heβd definitely want to. Maybe you could even get your own licence; a proper one, and a car to go with it. You could get a kitchen put in. An indoor bathroom. Slowly but surely, piece by piece, plank by plank, the whole place could come together.Β
The kids could come by. Itβd be like having neighbours. They would be neighbours, and you could watch them when Molly and Arthur were busy. You could teach them how to plant vegetables and flowers. You could learn how to plant vegetables and flowers. Carve out a little spot for an allotment. Thereβs enough field to go round, and youβve got the woodlands right down the road.Β
Then the slam of the front door shutting behind you echoes in the empty space, and your head gets real quiet.Β
Jesus Christ.
A loud thud sends you reeling, gasping sharply for air as you jerk out of your tumultuous sleep and roll unceremoniously off the edge of your bed. It doesnβt even hurt properly, not sharply, just a dull ache that rings in your joints as soon as you manage to heave yourself onto your feet again.Β
Itβs still dark out; the deep shadow against the curtain tells you as much. Squinting, you edge towards the door. But thereβs a groan; a loud, pained groan that sounds so vulnerable that you canβt help but be curious.
His head doesnβt even lift to look at you.
βYou lookβ¦β
Awful.
Heβs had the shit kicked out of him. You can barely see him in the dim light, but you can see the way he cradles one arm with the other, like heβs pulled something. He stumbles over obstacles that arenβt even there, careening into the wall with another crash that prompts you into movement.Β
βYeah, Iβ¦β
Then he tips forward dangerously; your arm shoots out to grab him, but he catches himself before you make contact. The world around you moves in slow motion; you donβt know how long it takes for your eyes to focus back on him. Knuckles whitening, he grips the doorframe and hauls himself up again.Β
You could just leave him. He hung around for a few days after the Weasleys got back, after which he disappeared again. You havenβt seen or heard him since. Molly and Arthur donβt seem too phased by his coming and going. βYou know what young men are like. As long as he gets his work done, thereβs no harm done.β
Wordlessly, you prop him against your shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist as you all but drag him into his room, stumbling under his weight. He slumps over the moment he hits the edge of the mattress, head dropping to the sheets. You sink to your knees beside him on the floor, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms and willing away the drowsiness that dances along the outskirts of your line of vision.Β
Youβre still half asleep and itβs weird. His room is weird. It smells weird. Like him. Thereβs two of him now. With the sleep meds youβre on, youβre surprised youβre upright at all. If youβre his best shot, heβs fucked.
βWe should wake someone,β you murmur hazily, shifting to push yourself upwards.Β
βNo, no,β he slurs, hand clamping down on your shoulder with surprising force.
βRemus, Iβm-β
βI know,β he sighs, one eye opening to look at you, βI can see it in your eyes, Y/N.β Then, a lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he leans in so close his nose almost bumps against yours. βYouβre pretty when youβre doped.β
Heβs too fucked for it to be even remotely attractive. Even in your drowsy state, youβre wrinkling your nose and repressing a grimace.Β
βWhatβs hap-β
He hushes you loudly.Β
βSo loud.β
A warm hand comes up sluggishly to rest on your head. You can barely feel the way his thumb only just manages to stroke your hair, but the movement lulls you into a trance, time slowing to a still.
βWhaβ¦β you frown, βwhy is your hand wet?β
Your hand slips up to grab his wrist, but he pulls away.
βSβnot,β he mumbles, barely audible over the sound of him wiping his palm on his shirt.
βItβs in my hair,β you sigh, slipping your own fingers through the strands. βOh, please, just, tell me itβs not something disgusting.βΒ
His eyes widen almost comically.
βChrist, no, sβonly my nosebleed,β he exclaims, trying to sit up. Heβs too woozy, doubles over, knocking your forehead painfully with his own and almost knocking you out with the force of it.
βOw,β you mutter, rubbing your forehead with the heel of your palm.Β
βSome prickβ¦β he grumbles, clutching his head. βI think he mightβve broken it nβ all.β
βWell donβt touch it,β you say, reaching up to grab his finger before he has a chance to prod at the bridge of his nose. Then, softer, this time; βDo you really think itβs broken?β
Remus shakes his head, sighing heavily and leaning back to rest his head against the pillow.Β
βNah.β
βYou sure? You should get it checked-β
He shushes you loudly, hand flinging out at random to swat at yours.Β
βGo to bed.β
βToo tired,β you sigh, putting your head in your hands.Β
βJusβ lie down here, then,β he mumbles, eyes closed, the edges of his words softened with sleep as his hand comes up to rest firmly against the back and side of your head. He pulls you towards him, head landing awkwardly against his chest. Itβs really uncomfortable, but youβre too tired to care. You canβt even formulate a final thought before sleep puts you under again.
Itβs his snores that wake you up. Itβs unsurprising; you hear him every now and again through the wall, but this is more aggressive. Must be the nosebleed.Β
You get up, back stiff from a night of twisted sleep, rubbing your eyes and sneaking a glimpse out beyond the curtain. Your eyes dart to the body in the bed, all but dead to the world.
βFuckβ¦β you mutter under your breath, running a hand through your hair. Then you frown, fingers coming away with clumps of dark red. The mirror on the wall is cracked, but you can clearly see your hair matted with what you remember to be blood, though it takes you a minute to remember how it got there.
You wash and head up to the house. Youβve errands to run with Molly. When you come back, heβs gone.Β
You spot him later that same afternoon, carrying beams on his shoulder from the barn to the truck with Arthur. He looks worse for wear, you can see that from here. Got a black eye, by the looks of it. Heβs supporting the beams with his right arm, wrapping it around the planks as they balance on his right shoulder.Β
Isnβt he left-handed?
The sounds of feet hitting gravel are the only noise to be heard except for the odd grunt coming from the barn approaching on your right.
β-and that shoulderβll be back to normal in no time, my boy,β Arthur remarks, heaving a sack into the back of the truck. He greets you cheerily as you pass, asking about your day. You remind him dinnerβll be in an hour. You glance to his left, discreetly as you can. If Remus notices youβre there, he doesnβt show it.
βCome on, Iβll treat you!β
Arthur beams up at you, well-intentional as ever. Itβs busy in town, even for a Saturday evening.Β
βI donβt, uhβ¦β You pause, trying to think of a viable excuse.
βCome on.β
He opens the door to the pub and holds it open wide, indicating for you to go inside. Thereβs no way out, you suppose. As exhausted as you are from a full day of running errands, youβre in no position to turn him down. Mollyβs got dinner planned in about two hours, so you wonβt be here long. You brace yourself for the sensory overload and step towards him.
Something Molly said in passing a few days ago comes to mind as you push towards the bar. βOh, theyβre rowdy, those boys are. Harmless,β sheβd nodded, βbut rowdy.β
Not that harmless, you think. Whatβd Remus told her, then? Fell into a ditch, or something. Thatβll be it; he fell into a ditch on the walk home from town. Or even better: climbed over a wall for a short cut and fell, landing right on his shoulder. Crunch.Β
You donβt get a black eye from falling off a wall, though. Either Molly is a different level of gullible, or sheβs ignoring it on purpose. He is a grown man, after all. Maybe youβre the only one acting like sheβs your parent.
Arthur leans in, βThey do a brilliant pie and mash. You hungry?β
βOh,β you say, avoiding his gaze and ignoring the way your palms threaten to sweat, βUhβ¦ Isnβt Molly cooking?β
βHungry for a snack, me,β he grins. βPork scratchings?β
You shake your head on impulse.Β
βPacket of crisps? Cheese and onion? Salt and vinegar?β
Head shake. Head shake. Head shake.Β
βSomething to drink? Pint? Glass of wine? Water?β
βWater,β you interject before he can continue. βGlass of water, please.β
βRight you are,β he smiles, turning to the bar expectantly and tapping his fingertips against the surface as he waits with wide eyes. You shift your weight from one foot to the other as you stand awkwardly behind him. Are you hovering? You feel like youβre hovering. Your imposter syndrome is having a field day.Β
βBusy today,β Arthur remarks, pulling a face and looking around. βWhy donβt you go find us somewhere to sit down, dear?β
You nod before you know what youβre doing. You look around a bit too quickly, not actually seeing what it is youβre looking for. The back of your neck starts burning, so you panic and beeline in a random direction. Thereβs people everywhere today; you see a table in the corner, a small one with two mismatched chairs, one of wood and one of a tattered, green velvet-Β
And thatβs when you see him. Two tables away, with a group of three other lads and a couple of girls. The redhead is making him laugh.Β
A lot.Β
Heβs pretty when he laughs. Itβs a lot nicer than the scowl that seems permanently etched into his features up at the house. Here, he seems young; happy, even, grinning into his pint and ducking away from one of his friends as he swats at him. You can barely see the bruising on his face, now. In this light, he looks just like his old self.Β
You stand there for a split second, preparing to back away any second now, but itβs long enough for you to catch his eye. Any trace of the smirk on his face dies immediately. It makes you feel sick. He looks away quickly and nods at the redhead, bringing his pint up to his lips.Β
the madonna | chapter two: delusions of goats and fireplaces
summary: It's 1985. The English countryside swells with the day's remains of midsummer heat as you make your way towards the gate, longs strands of grass nipping at your calves.
It's a good time to get away. Old and distant family friends have taken you in against your wildest imagination, following torturous personal circumstances and a recent mental breakdown. Here, where you can live with purpose among people who care about you, you can slowly begin to rest and recover in the secluded privacy of the Burrow.
Now would be a really bad time for you to run into the most traumatic ex-fling of your life, wouldn't it?
pairing: remus lupin x reader
genre: non-magic!AU; farmhand remus!AU
word count: 4k
warnings/tags: blood, injury, mental breakdown, mental health issues (mostly anxiety and depression), shitty parents, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, swearing, mentions of violence, orphanhood, a lot of self-deprecation, tension, pining, arguing, etc.
author's note: cannot believe it's been two years. yikes. have not proofread. enjoy!
chapter index
masterlist
chapter two | delusions of goats and fireplaces
Mollyβs cut a stack of bacon butties so tall it rivals her husband.Β
They balance on a simple, blue plate on the kitchen table, teetering dangerously over the edge like some top-heavy tube man. Molly says theyβre out in one of the far fields today, clearing it out for one of the neighbouring farms. It means a bit of a trek, and it means you need to find something else to put these sandwiches in.Β
You donβt hate the walk up. Youβre restless despite your constant fatigue, itching for movement and sweat and muscle ache. Straws and grasses brush at your ankles as you hike through the parched grasslands, tupperware tucked under one arm and a cooler bag and a flask of Horlicks in the other. Youβve never been up here yourself before; Arthur pointed you in the direction of the Lovegoodβs a couple of days ago, up past the swamps and through the clearing on the other side. Itβs mostly uphill after that, through sloping fields of yellow that have suffered the beating of the sun, and wood lanes overshadowed by leafy giants, cool in the summer heat.Β
Itβs overcast today, for the first time in well over a week, but that doesnβt stop the heat rising from the earth like steam trapped in a saucepan, clouds forming a heavy lid over the dome of your existence. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears, your heavy pants the only sound in an otherwise windless expanse. A bead of sweat trickles down your temple, rubbed away by a brisk forearm that you can barely bear to lift. All the clothes you have, bar what you had on your back the day you arrived, are hand-me-downs that Mollyβs been generous enough to offer you. Itβs almost exclusively skirts; long and flowy with patterns in browns, greens, and oranges that match her hair. Long skirts that she was going to give away anyway, so you donβt have to worry about getting grass stains or dirty marks on them. Your thighs have begun to chafe and as much as youβre enjoying the pain now, like some sort of sweet release and a reminder that youβre alive, youβre afraid of how youβre gonna feel after. Because right now, beneath the bright grey sky and fields that span on as far as the eye can see, itβs hard to picture an βafterβ.Β
But the after finally comes, and it comes in the form of two dark dots moving above the stone walls in the distance. Theyβre by a tree stump near the outskirts of the field when you reach the wall. You can see what theyβve been clearing, now; someoneβs been fly-tipping. Thereβs a path leading into some bushes near the biggest heap of junk; the road they drove up on must be just out the other side.Β
Arthur smiles brightly when he sees you, giving you an animated wave despite the ruddy cheeks that indicate his fatigue.Β
βExcellent timing, my dear. Come!β
Remus is too far away for you to see the look on his face, and maybe you donβt want to look. But youβre happy to take a breather as they make their way towards you, your mouth dry and your breathing almost hoarse. Youβve barely had cause to see him since the bucket incident a few days ago.Β
Arthur reaches you first, gesturing to the stone wall that separates you.Β
βItβs a bit of a tall one, Iβm afraid, and thereβs no way round unless you walk all the way up to the car, but Remusβll help you over in a jiffy. Wonβt you, lad?β
Remus grumbles something unintelligible in response.
βHere, Iβll take thatβ¦β
Free of the tupperware, youβve a hand free to shift your skirt. The seamβs twisted round to your front, and the label thatβs supposed to be at the back is now digging itchily into the flesh of your hip. You smooth the fabric down, ignoring how prickly and oddly numb your fingertips feel.
βWell, come on, then.β
You blink stupidly. Youβd forgotten about the logistics of getting over. Admittedly, climbing a wall might be the thing that finally tips your fatigue over the edge.Β
βWhatβ¦ What do you want me to-β
βOh, for fuck-β
He presses his palms against the top of the wall and pushes himself up over it with ease, landing beside you in a second. You turn to face him, but next thing you know his hands are pressing into your waist and heβs hoisted you up in the air like some rag doll, seating you atop the uneven stones. The straps of the cooler bag dig into your palms as you clumsily swing your legs over the other side and you concentrate on the burn for the second it takes him to jump back over. He doesnβt need to help you down, itβs just a simple drop, but his hand makes its way to the small of your back like itβs on instinct.Β
You stand so close together when your feet touch the ground that you can smell the sweat and humidity off him, but itβs a grounding smell. He catches you when you wobble, just for a brief second. Thatβs when he realises where his hand is, and he pulls back sharply.Β
βI trust Her Highness can make her own way over,β he mutters, stalking away before you can say another word.
Gnats buzz at your ear and you bring your wrist up to rub them away as you watch him. When you finally catch up, you set the tupperware on the stump, handing Arthur the Horlicks flask and dropping the cooler bag on the ground.Β
βOoh,β Arthur says, smiling widely and hurrying to unscrew the cap. He draws a deep sniff through his nose and sighs blissfully. "A cup for you, my boy?β
Remus looks less than impressed.Β
βHave you got nowt else for us?β
He doesnβt even look up at you when he says it, just turns his attention back to the cloth in his hands and the dirt heβs trying to rub off them. Well then.
βThereβs water or Ribena,β you say blandly, nudging the cooler bag over to him with your foot. βThatβs your lot.β
You donβt see if he reacts, turning your back on him and prying open the lid.Β
Then, from over your shoulder and with disinterest;
βTa.β
You watch Arthur as he leans back in his foldable lawn chair. Should you sit down? Are you supposed to? Your endeavours have caught up with you and youβre exhausted, blinking sluggishly.Β
βWhat time is it?β you wonder, distracted by a small bird flailing above a tree just down the way.Β
βWhat do I look like, a bloody sundial?β
Youβre half surprised he heard you as you werenβt sure you actually said it out loud. If you had the energy to care, you would. Instead, you sit down on the grass beside Arthurβs chair and tuck your knees to your side.Β
βMust be awful for the Lovegoods to have people fly-tipping on their lot,β you say, in an effort to make conversation.Β
βOh, no, dear,β Arthur replies animatedly in-between bites, βthis is all theirs. They like to collect things, the Lovegoods. Theyβve just run out of places to put things.β
βA binβ is the first place that comes to mind when you spot the tattered mattress and the curled wires of an old radiator, but knowing the state of Arthurβs shed, you donβt dare say it out loud. But as your eyes accidentally land on Remus, you know youβre not the only one.Β
You didnβt mean to look at him.
The odd chew and swallow are the only things to be heard for the next while. You sit twisting blades of grass and pulling them up, plaiting them together in a makeshift braid that falls apart when you try to knot it. The blades are too dry; they split and break and fray.
You almost lose track of the light as you stumble down the slopes again, veering into tree trunks and tripping over roots and dips and holes. Arthur had asked if you wanted to stay and catch a lift back with them in the truck, but then Remus said something snarky - you canβt remember what - and you figured youβd be better off just heading off yourself. Your eyes glaze over as you find relief in the dusk, head pounding at a steady rhythm matched by your footsteps and ticking away the time it takes you to make it down.Β
By the time youβve stumbled over the doorstep to the kitchen, Mollyβs gripped your arm and shoved the back of her hand against your forehead. Seconds later, youβre lying face down on a mattress in a cool, dark room. Just as your eyes begin to black out, you feel your gut squeeze around itself.Β
Did you eat today?
Straight out the gate, your headβs ringing like a bitch.Β
Thereβs a bee, or a wasp, or something, caught between the curtain and the window pane, buzzing loudly. You donβt know how it got there; you donβt crack the window at night, specifically to keep the bugs out, but judging by the foul taste in your mouth, the sweat on your brow, and the way your eyes screw shut at the slightest glimpse of sunlight bouncing off the wooden walls in your room, you might have to think of something else.Β
You feel nauseous as you shift towards the end of the bed, clutching the bedsheet feebly to your chest. Your hands feel kinda numb. It takes you a few tries to get the window lock open; your hands keep slipping off the small, metal latch. You donβt realise how hot it is until the first trickle of cool breeze seeps in through the crack. Under your arms, your breasts, your knees, youβre slick with sweat, head throbbing heavily.Β
Unsurprisingly, Remus is nowhere to be seen when you finally tiptoe out of your room. The grooves of the wooden floor are cool and uneven against the soles of your feet as you make your way outside. The front door creaks something awful when you undo the lock and push it open. Rough fibres of cloth and bristles scrub away at your skin and under your nails. The waterβs delightfully cold when you finally bring the basin over your head and wash away the soap and grime.
Thereβs no sign of him at the big house, either. Thatβs three days heβs been away now. Havenβt seen him since you caught a glimpse of him over your shoulder, shunting an old mattress onto the back of Arthurβs truck as you set off down the sloping fields again. Something in your brain tugs at the memory of the way the sunlight glinted off his bare arms.Β
You look around the ground floor; Molly and Arthur have taken the kids up to Mollyβs cousinβs for a few days for a family reunion. You barely remembered anything the morning after you passed out, waking up in a dark, musty room in the top landing from Molly tugging gently at your arm, filling you in on the impromptu plans and informing you that there was a casserole for you and Remus left on the stove for later. You half-thought youβd dreamt it when you woke up again hours later, only fitting the puzzle pieces together when you realised youβd been conscious for five minutes without hearing a single raised voice. Itβs strange to see the place so empty, but the opportunity to give it a good airing out without screaming children and clutter flying all over the place is too good an opportunity to miss.
Youβve really been working this place the past three days; clutter is almost completely gone, all you have left is the floors and carpets, maybe some curtains, and opening every window in this building to breathe new life into it. Your hands are raw from soaps and detergents, pins and needles prick at your arms and legs. You take it easy, moving down the hall with careful and intentional steps. Your clothes smell of sweat and theyβre stiff with grime, and you realise theyβre the ones you wore yesterday. You donβt think of much while you eat. Not much comes to mind, really, other than how tired you feel and your desperate need to do some laundry.Β
You set the swollen laundry basket down next to the washer. You donβt know how the dayβs gone by so fast. There is not a speck of dust left in the place. Turns out itβs a lot easier to do a deep clean when you donβt have seven children running around the place every hour of every day. Maybe thatβd be the way to do it, you think as you shove clothes into the machine. Make it a regular thing. Now that youβre helping out, it seems like a missed opportunity.Β
You shrug out of your clothes, peeling your bra and underwear off and tossing them into the now almost-full machine. Rhythmic humming vibrates through the floorboards as you make your way to the airing cupboard for a towel. Lukewarm water soothes your skin, fingertips easing the headache youβve been staving off all day as you lather and rinse. You get distracted as you dry yourself off, pressing softly at the skin on your cheeks and under your eyes to bring some feeling back in your face. You stare at the mirror for a while. The washerβs done by the time you make it back downstairs; your underwear and bra are almost dry from the spin cycle so you pull them on, ditch the towel, and pull the rest of the clothes into the basin.Β
The sun is on the last of its maximum effort when you push open the kitchen door and make your way to the clothes line. Thereβs no one around; other than Molly and Arthurβs lot, you havenβt seen another soul since you arrived. Todayβs been an absolute sweltering mess; staying indoors has meant youβve had at least some semblance of shade, and you canβt imagine many others are braving the scorching temperatures to leg it all the way into the middle of nowhere to drop by in the middle of the work week.Β
You hang the clothes on the line as the sun slowly begins to set, relishing in the cool relief of fresh air on your skin thatβs still slightly warm with sunburn. You rest a hand on the back of a plastic garden chair as you watch the colours flit across the sky, and in this moment you feel like you could just stay here, right here, forever. The deep breath you take in through your nose is sweet and full, calming your beating heart as you gently exhale. Itβs just you, the sun, and the birds flying in a pattern only they know over the tops of the trees in the distance. You watch as the tip of the tail of the last bird disappears over the horizon.Β
βSome view to come home to, that.β
Shit.Β
You forgot about him.
Your neck almost cracks as you whip around. Heβs leaning against the corner of the house - he must have come from the town road - arms crossed with narrowed, unkind eyes. Itβs glaringly obvious that heβs not talking about the birds, nor is he talking about the sunset thatβs nearing its end behind you.Β
You grab the nearest thing you see, ripping it off the line and bolting for the kitchen. The plastic pegs scatter among the tufts of grass, a rogue sock slipping off the line in the scuffle. He pushes himself off the wall in less than a heartbeat and sprints, beating you to the door by a second and reaching to lean against the doorframe just as you try to push through. He doesnβt budge. You tug the dress over your head, hair tousled and eyes looking anywhere but him as you ignore the bits of gravel that dig into the soles of your feet. You try to push through again, a bit more sophisticated now in your damp decency, but he still does not budge.Β
You feel his gaze on your face. It burns. All of it. Your skin, your hair, your nails, your eyeballs, it all burns. Youβve half a mind to grab the bristled brush from the farmhouse and start scrubbing until you see red. Your skin itches with it. You canβt even say heβs looking at you cheekily, not even with a semblance of lust. Itβs sheer arrogance, eyes sparkling with the delight of having put you in a position of distress. Like itβs a treat for him to make you feel this way.Β
βLet me though,β you mutter, eyes locked on the kitchen beyond his outstretched arm.Β
βOh, now-β
βIβm serious, let-β
βWhy the rush? I mean, youβve been fine out here for so long,β he says, feigning concern. The hubris in his voice makes you feel physically ill. So, heβs been watching you for a while, then. The greater the effort, the greater the reward, it would seem.Β
βTeaβs not gonna put itself on,β you insist, gripping his forearm weakly and attempting to pull it off the frame. Any relief you felt on your skin is long gone, the burning, sweltering sensation has returned tenfold.
After a minute or two he indulges you, standing up so you can just about squeeze past.Β
βWouldnβt want to go hungry, would we?β
You ignore him as you pull a saucepan out from under the counter and accidentally slam it onto the stovetop. You try not to think of him standing there, watching your every movement. The day that had seemed so liberating suddenly seems so far away. A thought strikes you as you grab the container out of the fridge, has he been on the drink?Β
You scoop spoonfuls of casserole into the saucepan. More than half of it remains in the container once youβre done; Molly had calculated portions for the both of you, but he hasnβt been in at all.Β
Your hands move on autopilot, twisting unsuccessfully at the lid of the jar of radishes Molly insisted you finish before they got home.Β
"Come on," you mutter under your breath, slamming the lip of the jar on the edge of the wooden table.Β
"Well, Jesus, don't whack it like that,β Remus huffs, snatching it from your grip. You hadnβt even noticed him cross the room. He pops the lid off and hands it back to you wordlessly, taking a seat at the table and pulling a paperback from his jacket pocket.Β
He reads while he eats. Heβs half done before you even pick up your fork. You push your food around your plate, the dayβs heat putting a permanent damper on most of your appetite, humiliation taking care of the rest. Thereβs a low hum in the air.
βYou make this?β
Itβs so monotonous youβre not even sure he said anything.Β
βHm?β
He swallows, eyes not lifting from the yellowed pages.Β
βDβyou make this?β
You stare at him for a second. Your shoulders tense; undoubtedly heβs found something to criticise you for.
βWhy?β
He frowns, then looks up. Then he shrugs.
βItβs nice.β
You blink.Β
βOh.β
You stare at each other for a minute, before he raises his eyebrows as if to say βwell?β
βNo,β you say slowly. βNo. Uh, Molly did.β
He grunts in response.Β
You watch as he takes both his plate and your own and heads over to the sink. Plates washed, he dries his hands with the towel slung over one of the chairs and picks up his book. Your eyes donβt leave him for a second as he takes a seat on the step leading out to the garden. He stretches his legs out, back leaning against the doorframe and the book settled snugly between his fingers, resting in his palm.Β
A strange feeling comes over you as you sit and watch him. Itβs a sensitive thing, a bodyβsΒ memory. Sitting in this kitchen, staring out as the final remnants of a sunset paint the sky, you feel tugs at the end of your mind. Flashes of young children running about the house, barefoot with dirty soles from playing in the grass all day. Plastic cups with faded floral patterns on them, resting on the kitchen table, filled with water turned lukewarm in the heat. And a small, slender, freckled boy with green eyes and dark blond hair, hands outstretched to pull you with him. Eyes wide and eager to show you the ropes, the feeling of bark underneath your palms and scrapes that bleed and burn on your knees.Β
You see the boy again, but heβs taller now, more confident. Heβs starting to grow into his features now. He avoids looking at you when he can, clammy hands no longer outstretched, no longer eager to pull you with him. Content to leave you behind. The sun still beats down on the grass, its yellowing tips crunching slightly under your toes.Β
You see him again, older and broader, but this is where your tolerance ends. You cannot, will not reminisce. You tear your eyes away from him and wipe your palms on your dress.Β
But itβs too late. Thereβs a sharp pain in your stomach, and youβve wandered into dangerous territory. However you knew him before, however he knew you, itβs gone. Gone are the eyes that used to steal quick glances when they thought no one noticed. Gone are the slight and innocent touches, gone is the feeling of warmth, the feeling of mattering, the feeling of hope. Gone is the boy who made you feel like you meant something to him.Β
Your heart aches. Then you pull yourself up. You may not know him now, but you knew him then. And surely that must count for something.
The breeze that sweeps across your skin as you step over the ledge and take a seat on the step is cool and fresh. You stretch your legs out, crossing at the ankles, and lean against the other side of the doorframe. The ache of the dayβs physical efforts starts to sink in, and you let your eyelids slowly fall shut.
You hear the light brushes as he turns each page. Once the last light starts to disappear from behind your eyelids, you slowly open them again, turning your head slightly so your eyes land on him. His features are poorly lit, his outline glowing from the golden reach of the kitchen light. A slight frown makes itself known as his eyes skim over the page.
βWhat?β he says quietly, looking over in your direction but not meeting your eyeline.Β
You didnβt think heβd noticed. You stifle a grunt as you push yourself off the corroded stone step, small, sharp bits of gravel sticking into your palms.Β
βJust thought you might want some company,β you mutter.Β
Without looking his way, you start walking and donβt stop until you reach the farm house.
Molly says you can move in permanently if you want. That theyβd be happy to have you, but they just donβt know what youβd want with a derelict, old farmhouse. She doesnβt mean it. You canβt imagine she means it. Sheβs just being polite. But itβs sparked a train of thought in you, a train of thought that for the first time ever imagines a reality in which you have a life; a job, family, maybe even friends if you play your cards right. A reality where you have other people around you, who actually want to be around you and find you interesting, and funny, and smart.Β Β Β
You find yourself imagining pieces of furniture in the front room, lighting fires in the stove and the smells of stews and pies and fresh air and green grass. Maybe a dog, or a goat, or something. Maybe a cat. You could get to town from here; Molly and Arthur would definitely let you catch a lift in the mornings, and you could walk to theirs from here no problem. Maybe you could get a bike. Youβd need one to get in and out of town, to do your shopping. You could put a basket on the front, or have Arthur fasten a wooden crate to it. Heβd definitely want to. Maybe you could even get your own licence; a proper one, and a car to go with it. You could get a kitchen put in. An indoor bathroom. Slowly but surely, piece by piece, plank by plank, the whole place could come together.Β
The kids could come by. Itβd be like having neighbours. They would be neighbours, and you could watch them when Molly and Arthur were busy. You could teach them how to plant vegetables and flowers. You could learn how to plant vegetables and flowers. Carve out a little spot for an allotment. Thereβs enough field to go round, and youβve got the woodlands right down the road.Β
Then the slam of the front door shutting behind you echoes in the empty space, and your head gets real quiet.Β
Jesus Christ.
A loud thud sends you reeling, gasping sharply for air as you jerk out of your tumultuous sleep and roll unceremoniously off the edge of your bed. It doesnβt even hurt properly, not sharply, just a dull ache that rings in your joints as soon as you manage to heave yourself onto your feet again.Β
Itβs still dark out; the deep shadow against the curtain tells you as much. Squinting, you edge towards the door. But thereβs a groan; a loud, pained groan that sounds so vulnerable that you canβt help but be curious.
His head doesnβt even lift to look at you.
βYou lookβ¦β
Awful.
Heβs had the shit kicked out of him. You can barely see him in the dim light, but you can see the way he cradles one arm with the other, like heβs pulled something. He stumbles over obstacles that arenβt even there, careening into the wall with another crash that prompts you into movement.Β
βYeah, Iβ¦β
Then he tips forward dangerously; your arm shoots out to grab him, but he catches himself before you make contact. The world around you moves in slow motion; you donβt know how long it takes for your eyes to focus back on him. Knuckles whitening, he grips the doorframe and hauls himself up again.Β
You could just leave him. He hung around for a few days after the Weasleys got back, after which he disappeared again. You havenβt seen or heard him since. Molly and Arthur donβt seem too phased by his coming and going. βYou know what young men are like. As long as he gets his work done, thereβs no harm done.β
Wordlessly, you prop him against your shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist as you all but drag him into his room, stumbling under his weight. He slumps over the moment he hits the edge of the mattress, head dropping to the sheets. You sink to your knees beside him on the floor, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms and willing away the drowsiness that dances along the outskirts of your line of vision.Β
Youβre still half asleep and itβs weird. His room is weird. It smells weird. Like him. Thereβs two of him now. With the sleep meds youβre on, youβre surprised youβre upright at all. If youβre his best shot, heβs fucked.
βWe should wake someone,β you murmur hazily, shifting to push yourself upwards.Β
βNo, no,β he slurs, hand clamping down on your shoulder with surprising force.
βRemus, Iβm-β
βI know,β he sighs, one eye opening to look at you, βI can see it in your eyes, Y/N.β Then, a lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he leans in so close his nose almost bumps against yours. βYouβre pretty when youβre doped.β
Heβs too fucked for it to be even remotely attractive. Even in your drowsy state, youβre wrinkling your nose and repressing a grimace.Β
βWhatβs hap-β
He hushes you loudly.Β
βSo loud.β
A warm hand comes up sluggishly to rest on your head. You can barely feel the way his thumb only just manages to stroke your hair, but the movement lulls you into a trance, time slowing to a still.
βWhaβ¦β you frown, βwhy is your hand wet?β
Your hand slips up to grab his wrist, but he pulls away.
βSβnot,β he mumbles, barely audible over the sound of him wiping his palm on his shirt.
βItβs in my hair,β you sigh, slipping your own fingers through the strands. βOh, please, just, tell me itβs not something disgusting.βΒ
His eyes widen almost comically.
βChrist, no, sβonly my nosebleed,β he exclaims, trying to sit up. Heβs too woozy, doubles over, knocking your forehead painfully with his own and almost knocking you out with the force of it.
βOw,β you mutter, rubbing your forehead with the heel of your palm.Β
βSome prickβ¦β he grumbles, clutching his head. βI think he mightβve broken it nβ all.β
βWell donβt touch it,β you say, reaching up to grab his finger before he has a chance to prod at the bridge of his nose. Then, softer, this time; βDo you really think itβs broken?β
Remus shakes his head, sighing heavily and leaning back to rest his head against the pillow.Β
βNah.β
βYou sure? You should get it checked-β
He shushes you loudly, hand flinging out at random to swat at yours.Β
βGo to bed.β
βToo tired,β you sigh, putting your head in your hands.Β
βJusβ lie down here, then,β he mumbles, eyes closed, the edges of his words softened with sleep as his hand comes up to rest firmly against the back and side of your head. He pulls you towards him, head landing awkwardly against his chest. Itβs really uncomfortable, but youβre too tired to care. You canβt even formulate a final thought before sleep puts you under again.
Itβs his snores that wake you up. Itβs unsurprising; you hear him every now and again through the wall, but this is more aggressive. Must be the nosebleed.Β
You get up, back stiff from a night of twisted sleep, rubbing your eyes and sneaking a glimpse out beyond the curtain. Your eyes dart to the body in the bed, all but dead to the world.
βFuckβ¦β you mutter under your breath, running a hand through your hair. Then you frown, fingers coming away with clumps of dark red. The mirror on the wall is cracked, but you can clearly see your hair matted with what you remember to be blood, though it takes you a minute to remember how it got there.
You wash and head up to the house. Youβve errands to run with Molly. When you come back, heβs gone.Β
You spot him later that same afternoon, carrying beams on his shoulder from the barn to the truck with Arthur. He looks worse for wear, you can see that from here. Got a black eye, by the looks of it. Heβs supporting the beams with his right arm, wrapping it around the planks as they balance on his right shoulder.Β
Isnβt he left-handed?
The sounds of feet hitting gravel are the only noise to be heard except for the odd grunt coming from the barn approaching on your right.
β-and that shoulderβll be back to normal in no time, my boy,β Arthur remarks, heaving a sack into the back of the truck. He greets you cheerily as you pass, asking about your day. You remind him dinnerβll be in an hour. You glance to his left, discreetly as you can. If Remus notices youβre there, he doesnβt show it.
βCome on, Iβll treat you!β
Arthur beams up at you, well-intentional as ever. Itβs busy in town, even for a Saturday evening.Β
βI donβt, uhβ¦β You pause, trying to think of a viable excuse.
βCome on.β
He opens the door to the pub and holds it open wide, indicating for you to go inside. Thereβs no way out, you suppose. As exhausted as you are from a full day of running errands, youβre in no position to turn him down. Mollyβs got dinner planned in about two hours, so you wonβt be here long. You brace yourself for the sensory overload and step towards him.
Something Molly said in passing a few days ago comes to mind as you push towards the bar. βOh, theyβre rowdy, those boys are. Harmless,β sheβd nodded, βbut rowdy.β
Not that harmless, you think. Whatβd Remus told her, then? Fell into a ditch, or something. Thatβll be it; he fell into a ditch on the walk home from town. Or even better: climbed over a wall for a short cut and fell, landing right on his shoulder. Crunch.Β
You donβt get a black eye from falling off a wall, though. Either Molly is a different level of gullible, or sheβs ignoring it on purpose. He is a grown man, after all. Maybe youβre the only one acting like sheβs your parent.
Arthur leans in, βThey do a brilliant pie and mash. You hungry?β
βOh,β you say, avoiding his gaze and ignoring the way your palms threaten to sweat, βUhβ¦ Isnβt Molly cooking?β
βHungry for a snack, me,β he grins. βPork scratchings?β
You shake your head on impulse.Β
βPacket of crisps? Cheese and onion? Salt and vinegar?β
Head shake. Head shake. Head shake.Β
βSomething to drink? Pint? Glass of wine? Water?β
βWater,β you interject before he can continue. βGlass of water, please.β
βRight you are,β he smiles, turning to the bar expectantly and tapping his fingertips against the surface as he waits with wide eyes. You shift your weight from one foot to the other as you stand awkwardly behind him. Are you hovering? You feel like youβre hovering. Your imposter syndrome is having a field day.Β
βBusy today,β Arthur remarks, pulling a face and looking around. βWhy donβt you go find us somewhere to sit down, dear?β
You nod before you know what youβre doing. You look around a bit too quickly, not actually seeing what it is youβre looking for. The back of your neck starts burning, so you panic and beeline in a random direction. Thereβs people everywhere today; you see a table in the corner, a small one with two mismatched chairs, one of wood and one of a tattered, green velvet-Β
And thatβs when you see him. Two tables away, with a group of three other lads and a couple of girls. The redhead is making him laugh.Β
A lot.Β
Heβs pretty when he laughs. Itβs a lot nicer than the scowl that seems permanently etched into his features up at the house. Here, he seems young; happy, even, grinning into his pint and ducking away from one of his friends as he swats at him. You can barely see the bruising on his face, now. In this light, he looks just like his old self.Β
You stand there for a split second, preparing to back away any second now, but itβs long enough for you to catch his eye. Any trace of the smirk on his face dies immediately. It makes you feel sick. He looks away quickly and nods at the redhead, bringing his pint up to his lips.Β
the madonna | chapter two: delusions of goats and fireplaces
summary: It's 1985. The English countryside swells with the day's remains of midsummer heat as you make your way towards the gate, longs strands of grass nipping at your calves.
It's a good time to get away. Old and distant family friends have taken you in against your wildest imagination, following torturous personal circumstances and a recent mental breakdown. Here, where you can live with purpose among people who care about you, you can slowly begin to rest and recover in the secluded privacy of the Burrow.
Now would be a really bad time for you to run into the most traumatic ex-fling of your life, wouldn't it?
pairing: remus lupin x reader
genre: non-magic!AU; farmhand remus!AU
word count: 4k
warnings/tags: blood, injury, mental breakdown, mental health issues (mostly anxiety and depression), shitty parents, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, swearing, mentions of violence, orphanhood, a lot of self-deprecation, tension, pining, arguing, etc.
author's note: cannot believe it's been two years. yikes. have not proofread. enjoy!
chapter index
masterlist
chapter two | delusions of goats and fireplaces
Mollyβs cut a stack of bacon butties so tall it rivals her husband.Β
They balance on a simple, blue plate on the kitchen table, teetering dangerously over the edge like some top-heavy tube man. Molly says theyβre out in one of the far fields today, clearing it out for one of the neighbouring farms. It means a bit of a trek, and it means you need to find something else to put these sandwiches in.Β
You donβt hate the walk up. Youβre restless despite your constant fatigue, itching for movement and sweat and muscle ache. Straws and grasses brush at your ankles as you hike through the parched grasslands, tupperware tucked under one arm and a cooler bag and a flask of Horlicks in the other. Youβve never been up here yourself before; Arthur pointed you in the direction of the Lovegoodβs a couple of days ago, up past the swamps and through the clearing on the other side. Itβs mostly uphill after that, through sloping fields of yellow that have suffered the beating of the sun, and wood lanes overshadowed by leafy giants, cool in the summer heat.Β
Itβs overcast today, for the first time in well over a week, but that doesnβt stop the heat rising from the earth like steam trapped in a saucepan, clouds forming a heavy lid over the dome of your existence. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears, your heavy pants the only sound in an otherwise windless expanse. A bead of sweat trickles down your temple, rubbed away by a brisk forearm that you can barely bear to lift. All the clothes you have, bar what you had on your back the day you arrived, are hand-me-downs that Mollyβs been generous enough to offer you. Itβs almost exclusively skirts; long and flowy with patterns in browns, greens, and oranges that match her hair. Long skirts that she was going to give away anyway, so you donβt have to worry about getting grass stains or dirty marks on them. Your thighs have begun to chafe and as much as youβre enjoying the pain now, like some sort of sweet release and a reminder that youβre alive, youβre afraid of how youβre gonna feel after. Because right now, beneath the bright grey sky and fields that span on as far as the eye can see, itβs hard to picture an βafterβ.Β
But the after finally comes, and it comes in the form of two dark dots moving above the stone walls in the distance. Theyβre by a tree stump near the outskirts of the field when you reach the wall. You can see what theyβve been clearing, now; someoneβs been fly-tipping. Thereβs a path leading into some bushes near the biggest heap of junk; the road they drove up on must be just out the other side.Β
Arthur smiles brightly when he sees you, giving you an animated wave despite the ruddy cheeks that indicate his fatigue.Β
βExcellent timing, my dear. Come!β
Remus is too far away for you to see the look on his face, and maybe you donβt want to look. But youβre happy to take a breather as they make their way towards you, your mouth dry and your breathing almost hoarse. Youβve barely had cause to see him since the bucket incident a few days ago.Β
Arthur reaches you first, gesturing to the stone wall that separates you.Β
βItβs a bit of a tall one, Iβm afraid, and thereβs no way round unless you walk all the way up to the car, but Remusβll help you over in a jiffy. Wonβt you, lad?β
Remus grumbles something unintelligible in response.
βHere, Iβll take thatβ¦β
Free of the tupperware, youβve a hand free to shift your skirt. The seamβs twisted round to your front, and the label thatβs supposed to be at the back is now digging itchily into the flesh of your hip. You smooth the fabric down, ignoring how prickly and oddly numb your fingertips feel.
βWell, come on, then.β
You blink stupidly. Youβd forgotten about the logistics of getting over. Admittedly, climbing a wall might be the thing that finally tips your fatigue over the edge.Β
βWhatβ¦ What do you want me to-β
βOh, for fuck-β
He presses his palms against the top of the wall and pushes himself up over it with ease, landing beside you in a second. You turn to face him, but next thing you know his hands are pressing into your waist and heβs hoisted you up in the air like some rag doll, seating you atop the uneven stones. The straps of the cooler bag dig into your palms as you clumsily swing your legs over the other side and you concentrate on the burn for the second it takes him to jump back over. He doesnβt need to help you down, itβs just a simple drop, but his hand makes its way to the small of your back like itβs on instinct.Β
You stand so close together when your feet touch the ground that you can smell the sweat and humidity off him, but itβs a grounding smell. He catches you when you wobble, just for a brief second. Thatβs when he realises where his hand is, and he pulls back sharply.Β
βI trust Her Highness can make her own way over,β he mutters, stalking away before you can say another word.
Gnats buzz at your ear and you bring your wrist up to rub them away as you watch him. When you finally catch up, you set the tupperware on the stump, handing Arthur the Horlicks flask and dropping the cooler bag on the ground.Β
βOoh,β Arthur says, smiling widely and hurrying to unscrew the cap. He draws a deep sniff through his nose and sighs blissfully. "A cup for you, my boy?β
Remus looks less than impressed.Β
βHave you got nowt else for us?β
He doesnβt even look up at you when he says it, just turns his attention back to the cloth in his hands and the dirt heβs trying to rub off them. Well then.
βThereβs water or Ribena,β you say blandly, nudging the cooler bag over to him with your foot. βThatβs your lot.β
You donβt see if he reacts, turning your back on him and prying open the lid.Β
Then, from over your shoulder and with disinterest;
βTa.β
You watch Arthur as he leans back in his foldable lawn chair. Should you sit down? Are you supposed to? Your endeavours have caught up with you and youβre exhausted, blinking sluggishly.Β
βWhat time is it?β you wonder, distracted by a small bird flailing above a tree just down the way.Β
βWhat do I look like, a bloody sundial?β
Youβre half surprised he heard you as you werenβt sure you actually said it out loud. If you had the energy to care, you would. Instead, you sit down on the grass beside Arthurβs chair and tuck your knees to your side.Β
βMust be awful for the Lovegoods to have people fly-tipping on their lot,β you say, in an effort to make conversation.Β
βOh, no, dear,β Arthur replies animatedly in-between bites, βthis is all theirs. They like to collect things, the Lovegoods. Theyβve just run out of places to put things.β
βA binβ is the first place that comes to mind when you spot the tattered mattress and the curled wires of an old radiator, but knowing the state of Arthurβs shed, you donβt dare say it out loud. But as your eyes accidentally land on Remus, you know youβre not the only one.Β
You didnβt mean to look at him.
The odd chew and swallow are the only things to be heard for the next while. You sit twisting blades of grass and pulling them up, plaiting them together in a makeshift braid that falls apart when you try to knot it. The blades are too dry; they split and break and fray.
You almost lose track of the light as you stumble down the slopes again, veering into tree trunks and tripping over roots and dips and holes. Arthur had asked if you wanted to stay and catch a lift back with them in the truck, but then Remus said something snarky - you canβt remember what - and you figured youβd be better off just heading off yourself. Your eyes glaze over as you find relief in the dusk, head pounding at a steady rhythm matched by your footsteps and ticking away the time it takes you to make it down.Β
By the time youβve stumbled over the doorstep to the kitchen, Mollyβs gripped your arm and shoved the back of her hand against your forehead. Seconds later, youβre lying face down on a mattress in a cool, dark room. Just as your eyes begin to black out, you feel your gut squeeze around itself.Β
Did you eat today?
Straight out the gate, your headβs ringing like a bitch.Β
Thereβs a bee, or a wasp, or something, caught between the curtain and the window pane, buzzing loudly. You donβt know how it got there; you donβt crack the window at night, specifically to keep the bugs out, but judging by the foul taste in your mouth, the sweat on your brow, and the way your eyes screw shut at the slightest glimpse of sunlight bouncing off the wooden walls in your room, you might have to think of something else.Β
You feel nauseous as you shift towards the end of the bed, clutching the bedsheet feebly to your chest. Your hands feel kinda numb. It takes you a few tries to get the window lock open; your hands keep slipping off the small, metal latch. You donβt realise how hot it is until the first trickle of cool breeze seeps in through the crack. Under your arms, your breasts, your knees, youβre slick with sweat, head throbbing heavily.Β
Unsurprisingly, Remus is nowhere to be seen when you finally tiptoe out of your room. The grooves of the wooden floor are cool and uneven against the soles of your feet as you make your way outside. The front door creaks something awful when you undo the lock and push it open. Rough fibres of cloth and bristles scrub away at your skin and under your nails. The waterβs delightfully cold when you finally bring the basin over your head and wash away the soap and grime.
Thereβs no sign of him at the big house, either. Thatβs three days heβs been away now. Havenβt seen him since you caught a glimpse of him over your shoulder, shunting an old mattress onto the back of Arthurβs truck as you set off down the sloping fields again. Something in your brain tugs at the memory of the way the sunlight glinted off his bare arms.Β
You look around the ground floor; Molly and Arthur have taken the kids up to Mollyβs cousinβs for a few days for a family reunion. You barely remembered anything the morning after you passed out, waking up in a dark, musty room in the top landing from Molly tugging gently at your arm, filling you in on the impromptu plans and informing you that there was a casserole for you and Remus left on the stove for later. You half-thought youβd dreamt it when you woke up again hours later, only fitting the puzzle pieces together when you realised youβd been conscious for five minutes without hearing a single raised voice. Itβs strange to see the place so empty, but the opportunity to give it a good airing out without screaming children and clutter flying all over the place is too good an opportunity to miss.
Youβve really been working this place the past three days; clutter is almost completely gone, all you have left is the floors and carpets, maybe some curtains, and opening every window in this building to breathe new life into it. Your hands are raw from soaps and detergents, pins and needles prick at your arms and legs. You take it easy, moving down the hall with careful and intentional steps. Your clothes smell of sweat and theyβre stiff with grime, and you realise theyβre the ones you wore yesterday. You donβt think of much while you eat. Not much comes to mind, really, other than how tired you feel and your desperate need to do some laundry.Β
You set the swollen laundry basket down next to the washer. You donβt know how the dayβs gone by so fast. There is not a speck of dust left in the place. Turns out itβs a lot easier to do a deep clean when you donβt have seven children running around the place every hour of every day. Maybe thatβd be the way to do it, you think as you shove clothes into the machine. Make it a regular thing. Now that youβre helping out, it seems like a missed opportunity.Β
You shrug out of your clothes, peeling your bra and underwear off and tossing them into the now almost-full machine. Rhythmic humming vibrates through the floorboards as you make your way to the airing cupboard for a towel. Lukewarm water soothes your skin, fingertips easing the headache youβve been staving off all day as you lather and rinse. You get distracted as you dry yourself off, pressing softly at the skin on your cheeks and under your eyes to bring some feeling back in your face. You stare at the mirror for a while. The washerβs done by the time you make it back downstairs; your underwear and bra are almost dry from the spin cycle so you pull them on, ditch the towel, and pull the rest of the clothes into the basin.Β
The sun is on the last of its maximum effort when you push open the kitchen door and make your way to the clothes line. Thereβs no one around; other than Molly and Arthurβs lot, you havenβt seen another soul since you arrived. Todayβs been an absolute sweltering mess; staying indoors has meant youβve had at least some semblance of shade, and you canβt imagine many others are braving the scorching temperatures to leg it all the way into the middle of nowhere to drop by in the middle of the work week.Β
You hang the clothes on the line as the sun slowly begins to set, relishing in the cool relief of fresh air on your skin thatβs still slightly warm with sunburn. You rest a hand on the back of a plastic garden chair as you watch the colours flit across the sky, and in this moment you feel like you could just stay here, right here, forever. The deep breath you take in through your nose is sweet and full, calming your beating heart as you gently exhale. Itβs just you, the sun, and the birds flying in a pattern only they know over the tops of the trees in the distance. You watch as the tip of the tail of the last bird disappears over the horizon.Β
βSome view to come home to, that.β
Shit.Β
You forgot about him.
Your neck almost cracks as you whip around. Heβs leaning against the corner of the house - he must have come from the town road - arms crossed with narrowed, unkind eyes. Itβs glaringly obvious that heβs not talking about the birds, nor is he talking about the sunset thatβs nearing its end behind you.Β
You grab the nearest thing you see, ripping it off the line and bolting for the kitchen. The plastic pegs scatter among the tufts of grass, a rogue sock slipping off the line in the scuffle. He pushes himself off the wall in less than a heartbeat and sprints, beating you to the door by a second and reaching to lean against the doorframe just as you try to push through. He doesnβt budge. You tug the dress over your head, hair tousled and eyes looking anywhere but him as you ignore the bits of gravel that dig into the soles of your feet. You try to push through again, a bit more sophisticated now in your damp decency, but he still does not budge.Β
You feel his gaze on your face. It burns. All of it. Your skin, your hair, your nails, your eyeballs, it all burns. Youβve half a mind to grab the bristled brush from the farmhouse and start scrubbing until you see red. Your skin itches with it. You canβt even say heβs looking at you cheekily, not even with a semblance of lust. Itβs sheer arrogance, eyes sparkling with the delight of having put you in a position of distress. Like itβs a treat for him to make you feel this way.Β
βLet me though,β you mutter, eyes locked on the kitchen beyond his outstretched arm.Β
βOh, now-β
βIβm serious, let-β
βWhy the rush? I mean, youβve been fine out here for so long,β he says, feigning concern. The hubris in his voice makes you feel physically ill. So, heβs been watching you for a while, then. The greater the effort, the greater the reward, it would seem.Β
βTeaβs not gonna put itself on,β you insist, gripping his forearm weakly and attempting to pull it off the frame. Any relief you felt on your skin is long gone, the burning, sweltering sensation has returned tenfold.
After a minute or two he indulges you, standing up so you can just about squeeze past.Β
βWouldnβt want to go hungry, would we?β
You ignore him as you pull a saucepan out from under the counter and accidentally slam it onto the stovetop. You try not to think of him standing there, watching your every movement. The day that had seemed so liberating suddenly seems so far away. A thought strikes you as you grab the container out of the fridge, has he been on the drink?Β
You scoop spoonfuls of casserole into the saucepan. More than half of it remains in the container once youβre done; Molly had calculated portions for the both of you, but he hasnβt been in at all.Β
Your hands move on autopilot, twisting unsuccessfully at the lid of the jar of radishes Molly insisted you finish before they got home.Β
"Come on," you mutter under your breath, slamming the lip of the jar on the edge of the wooden table.Β
"Well, Jesus, don't whack it like that,β Remus huffs, snatching it from your grip. You hadnβt even noticed him cross the room. He pops the lid off and hands it back to you wordlessly, taking a seat at the table and pulling a paperback from his jacket pocket.Β
He reads while he eats. Heβs half done before you even pick up your fork. You push your food around your plate, the dayβs heat putting a permanent damper on most of your appetite, humiliation taking care of the rest. Thereβs a low hum in the air.
βYou make this?β
Itβs so monotonous youβre not even sure he said anything.Β
βHm?β
He swallows, eyes not lifting from the yellowed pages.Β
βDβyou make this?β
You stare at him for a second. Your shoulders tense; undoubtedly heβs found something to criticise you for.
βWhy?β
He frowns, then looks up. Then he shrugs.
βItβs nice.β
You blink.Β
βOh.β
You stare at each other for a minute, before he raises his eyebrows as if to say βwell?β
βNo,β you say slowly. βNo. Uh, Molly did.β
He grunts in response.Β
You watch as he takes both his plate and your own and heads over to the sink. Plates washed, he dries his hands with the towel slung over one of the chairs and picks up his book. Your eyes donβt leave him for a second as he takes a seat on the step leading out to the garden. He stretches his legs out, back leaning against the doorframe and the book settled snugly between his fingers, resting in his palm.Β
A strange feeling comes over you as you sit and watch him. Itβs a sensitive thing, a bodyβsΒ memory. Sitting in this kitchen, staring out as the final remnants of a sunset paint the sky, you feel tugs at the end of your mind. Flashes of young children running about the house, barefoot with dirty soles from playing in the grass all day. Plastic cups with faded floral patterns on them, resting on the kitchen table, filled with water turned lukewarm in the heat. And a small, slender, freckled boy with green eyes and dark blond hair, hands outstretched to pull you with him. Eyes wide and eager to show you the ropes, the feeling of bark underneath your palms and scrapes that bleed and burn on your knees.Β
You see the boy again, but heβs taller now, more confident. Heβs starting to grow into his features now. He avoids looking at you when he can, clammy hands no longer outstretched, no longer eager to pull you with him. Content to leave you behind. The sun still beats down on the grass, its yellowing tips crunching slightly under your toes.Β
You see him again, older and broader, but this is where your tolerance ends. You cannot, will not reminisce. You tear your eyes away from him and wipe your palms on your dress.Β
But itβs too late. Thereβs a sharp pain in your stomach, and youβve wandered into dangerous territory. However you knew him before, however he knew you, itβs gone. Gone are the eyes that used to steal quick glances when they thought no one noticed. Gone are the slight and innocent touches, gone is the feeling of warmth, the feeling of mattering, the feeling of hope. Gone is the boy who made you feel like you meant something to him.Β
Your heart aches. Then you pull yourself up. You may not know him now, but you knew him then. And surely that must count for something.
The breeze that sweeps across your skin as you step over the ledge and take a seat on the step is cool and fresh. You stretch your legs out, crossing at the ankles, and lean against the other side of the doorframe. The ache of the dayβs physical efforts starts to sink in, and you let your eyelids slowly fall shut.
You hear the light brushes as he turns each page. Once the last light starts to disappear from behind your eyelids, you slowly open them again, turning your head slightly so your eyes land on him. His features are poorly lit, his outline glowing from the golden reach of the kitchen light. A slight frown makes itself known as his eyes skim over the page.
βWhat?β he says quietly, looking over in your direction but not meeting your eyeline.Β
You didnβt think heβd noticed. You stifle a grunt as you push yourself off the corroded stone step, small, sharp bits of gravel sticking into your palms.Β
βJust thought you might want some company,β you mutter.Β
Without looking his way, you start walking and donβt stop until you reach the farm house.
Molly says you can move in permanently if you want. That theyβd be happy to have you, but they just donβt know what youβd want with a derelict, old farmhouse. She doesnβt mean it. You canβt imagine she means it. Sheβs just being polite. But itβs sparked a train of thought in you, a train of thought that for the first time ever imagines a reality in which you have a life; a job, family, maybe even friends if you play your cards right. A reality where you have other people around you, who actually want to be around you and find you interesting, and funny, and smart.Β Β Β
You find yourself imagining pieces of furniture in the front room, lighting fires in the stove and the smells of stews and pies and fresh air and green grass. Maybe a dog, or a goat, or something. Maybe a cat. You could get to town from here; Molly and Arthur would definitely let you catch a lift in the mornings, and you could walk to theirs from here no problem. Maybe you could get a bike. Youβd need one to get in and out of town, to do your shopping. You could put a basket on the front, or have Arthur fasten a wooden crate to it. Heβd definitely want to. Maybe you could even get your own licence; a proper one, and a car to go with it. You could get a kitchen put in. An indoor bathroom. Slowly but surely, piece by piece, plank by plank, the whole place could come together.Β
The kids could come by. Itβd be like having neighbours. They would be neighbours, and you could watch them when Molly and Arthur were busy. You could teach them how to plant vegetables and flowers. You could learn how to plant vegetables and flowers. Carve out a little spot for an allotment. Thereβs enough field to go round, and youβve got the woodlands right down the road.Β
Then the slam of the front door shutting behind you echoes in the empty space, and your head gets real quiet.Β
Jesus Christ.
A loud thud sends you reeling, gasping sharply for air as you jerk out of your tumultuous sleep and roll unceremoniously off the edge of your bed. It doesnβt even hurt properly, not sharply, just a dull ache that rings in your joints as soon as you manage to heave yourself onto your feet again.Β
Itβs still dark out; the deep shadow against the curtain tells you as much. Squinting, you edge towards the door. But thereβs a groan; a loud, pained groan that sounds so vulnerable that you canβt help but be curious.
His head doesnβt even lift to look at you.
βYou lookβ¦β
Awful.
Heβs had the shit kicked out of him. You can barely see him in the dim light, but you can see the way he cradles one arm with the other, like heβs pulled something. He stumbles over obstacles that arenβt even there, careening into the wall with another crash that prompts you into movement.Β
βYeah, Iβ¦β
Then he tips forward dangerously; your arm shoots out to grab him, but he catches himself before you make contact. The world around you moves in slow motion; you donβt know how long it takes for your eyes to focus back on him. Knuckles whitening, he grips the doorframe and hauls himself up again.Β
You could just leave him. He hung around for a few days after the Weasleys got back, after which he disappeared again. You havenβt seen or heard him since. Molly and Arthur donβt seem too phased by his coming and going. βYou know what young men are like. As long as he gets his work done, thereβs no harm done.β
Wordlessly, you prop him against your shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist as you all but drag him into his room, stumbling under his weight. He slumps over the moment he hits the edge of the mattress, head dropping to the sheets. You sink to your knees beside him on the floor, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms and willing away the drowsiness that dances along the outskirts of your line of vision.Β
Youβre still half asleep and itβs weird. His room is weird. It smells weird. Like him. Thereβs two of him now. With the sleep meds youβre on, youβre surprised youβre upright at all. If youβre his best shot, heβs fucked.
βWe should wake someone,β you murmur hazily, shifting to push yourself upwards.Β
βNo, no,β he slurs, hand clamping down on your shoulder with surprising force.
βRemus, Iβm-β
βI know,β he sighs, one eye opening to look at you, βI can see it in your eyes, Y/N.β Then, a lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he leans in so close his nose almost bumps against yours. βYouβre pretty when youβre doped.β
Heβs too fucked for it to be even remotely attractive. Even in your drowsy state, youβre wrinkling your nose and repressing a grimace.Β
βWhatβs hap-β
He hushes you loudly.Β
βSo loud.β
A warm hand comes up sluggishly to rest on your head. You can barely feel the way his thumb only just manages to stroke your hair, but the movement lulls you into a trance, time slowing to a still.
βWhaβ¦β you frown, βwhy is your hand wet?β
Your hand slips up to grab his wrist, but he pulls away.
βSβnot,β he mumbles, barely audible over the sound of him wiping his palm on his shirt.
βItβs in my hair,β you sigh, slipping your own fingers through the strands. βOh, please, just, tell me itβs not something disgusting.βΒ
His eyes widen almost comically.
βChrist, no, sβonly my nosebleed,β he exclaims, trying to sit up. Heβs too woozy, doubles over, knocking your forehead painfully with his own and almost knocking you out with the force of it.
βOw,β you mutter, rubbing your forehead with the heel of your palm.Β
βSome prickβ¦β he grumbles, clutching his head. βI think he mightβve broken it nβ all.β
βWell donβt touch it,β you say, reaching up to grab his finger before he has a chance to prod at the bridge of his nose. Then, softer, this time; βDo you really think itβs broken?β
Remus shakes his head, sighing heavily and leaning back to rest his head against the pillow.Β
βNah.β
βYou sure? You should get it checked-β
He shushes you loudly, hand flinging out at random to swat at yours.Β
βGo to bed.β
βToo tired,β you sigh, putting your head in your hands.Β
βJusβ lie down here, then,β he mumbles, eyes closed, the edges of his words softened with sleep as his hand comes up to rest firmly against the back and side of your head. He pulls you towards him, head landing awkwardly against his chest. Itβs really uncomfortable, but youβre too tired to care. You canβt even formulate a final thought before sleep puts you under again.
Itβs his snores that wake you up. Itβs unsurprising; you hear him every now and again through the wall, but this is more aggressive. Must be the nosebleed.Β
You get up, back stiff from a night of twisted sleep, rubbing your eyes and sneaking a glimpse out beyond the curtain. Your eyes dart to the body in the bed, all but dead to the world.
βFuckβ¦β you mutter under your breath, running a hand through your hair. Then you frown, fingers coming away with clumps of dark red. The mirror on the wall is cracked, but you can clearly see your hair matted with what you remember to be blood, though it takes you a minute to remember how it got there.
You wash and head up to the house. Youβve errands to run with Molly. When you come back, heβs gone.Β
You spot him later that same afternoon, carrying beams on his shoulder from the barn to the truck with Arthur. He looks worse for wear, you can see that from here. Got a black eye, by the looks of it. Heβs supporting the beams with his right arm, wrapping it around the planks as they balance on his right shoulder.Β
Isnβt he left-handed?
The sounds of feet hitting gravel are the only noise to be heard except for the odd grunt coming from the barn approaching on your right.
β-and that shoulderβll be back to normal in no time, my boy,β Arthur remarks, heaving a sack into the back of the truck. He greets you cheerily as you pass, asking about your day. You remind him dinnerβll be in an hour. You glance to his left, discreetly as you can. If Remus notices youβre there, he doesnβt show it.
βCome on, Iβll treat you!β
Arthur beams up at you, well-intentional as ever. Itβs busy in town, even for a Saturday evening.Β
βI donβt, uhβ¦β You pause, trying to think of a viable excuse.
βCome on.β
He opens the door to the pub and holds it open wide, indicating for you to go inside. Thereβs no way out, you suppose. As exhausted as you are from a full day of running errands, youβre in no position to turn him down. Mollyβs got dinner planned in about two hours, so you wonβt be here long. You brace yourself for the sensory overload and step towards him.
Something Molly said in passing a few days ago comes to mind as you push towards the bar. βOh, theyβre rowdy, those boys are. Harmless,β sheβd nodded, βbut rowdy.β
Not that harmless, you think. Whatβd Remus told her, then? Fell into a ditch, or something. Thatβll be it; he fell into a ditch on the walk home from town. Or even better: climbed over a wall for a short cut and fell, landing right on his shoulder. Crunch.Β
You donβt get a black eye from falling off a wall, though. Either Molly is a different level of gullible, or sheβs ignoring it on purpose. He is a grown man, after all. Maybe youβre the only one acting like sheβs your parent.
Arthur leans in, βThey do a brilliant pie and mash. You hungry?β
βOh,β you say, avoiding his gaze and ignoring the way your palms threaten to sweat, βUhβ¦ Isnβt Molly cooking?β
βHungry for a snack, me,β he grins. βPork scratchings?β
You shake your head on impulse.Β
βPacket of crisps? Cheese and onion? Salt and vinegar?β
Head shake. Head shake. Head shake.Β
βSomething to drink? Pint? Glass of wine? Water?β
βWater,β you interject before he can continue. βGlass of water, please.β
βRight you are,β he smiles, turning to the bar expectantly and tapping his fingertips against the surface as he waits with wide eyes. You shift your weight from one foot to the other as you stand awkwardly behind him. Are you hovering? You feel like youβre hovering. Your imposter syndrome is having a field day.Β
βBusy today,β Arthur remarks, pulling a face and looking around. βWhy donβt you go find us somewhere to sit down, dear?β
You nod before you know what youβre doing. You look around a bit too quickly, not actually seeing what it is youβre looking for. The back of your neck starts burning, so you panic and beeline in a random direction. Thereβs people everywhere today; you see a table in the corner, a small one with two mismatched chairs, one of wood and one of a tattered, green velvet-Β
And thatβs when you see him. Two tables away, with a group of three other lads and a couple of girls. The redhead is making him laugh.Β
A lot.Β
Heβs pretty when he laughs. Itβs a lot nicer than the scowl that seems permanently etched into his features up at the house. Here, he seems young; happy, even, grinning into his pint and ducking away from one of his friends as he swats at him. You can barely see the bruising on his face, now. In this light, he looks just like his old self.Β
You stand there for a split second, preparing to back away any second now, but itβs long enough for you to catch his eye. Any trace of the smirk on his face dies immediately. It makes you feel sick. He looks away quickly and nods at the redhead, bringing his pint up to his lips.Β
summary: It's 1985. The English countryside swells with the day's remains of midsummer heat as you make your way towards the gate, longs strands of grass nipping at your calves.
It's a good time to get away. Old and distant family friends have taken you in against your wildest imagination, following torturous personal circumstances and a recent mental breakdown. Here, where you can live with purpose among people who care about you, you can slowly begin to rest and recover in the secluded privacy of the Burrow.
Now would be a really bad time for you to run into the most traumatic ex-fling of your life, wouldn't it?
pairing: remus lupin x reader
genre: non-magic!AU; farmhand remus!AU
word count: 4k
warnings/tags: blood, injury, mental breakdown, mental health issues (mostly anxiety and depression), shitty parents, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, swearing, mentions of violence, orphanhood, a lot of self-deprecation, tension, pining, arguing, etc.
author's note: minors DNI! please read the warnings. this series is taking all i have to write. i hope it resonates with at least some of you.
chapter index
masterlist
chapter one | arrival
The nightβs a dewy one; wet and almost,Β almostΒ , cold, with a fog that hangs heavy around your head.
βY/N.Β SoΒ good to see you, love.β
She means well. The sincerity in her eyes and the warmth in her smile tells you as much. But thereβs something in her voice that sounds aΒ littleΒ too much like pity. Her clammy palm cups your cheek, adding to the itchy layer of grime that seems to coat every inch of your skin.Β
Still, you smile.Β
βMolly.β
She shoves a cup into your hands. Sheβs gone before you have a chance to thank her.Β
Canβt stand this English Breakfast shit.
Placing the cup on the mantle, you wrap an arm around the waist of each twin in the armchair and lift them up before settling in yourself.Β
Every joint in your body aches. Your wrists feel weak, like half the blood has drained from your body. The headache thatβs been brewing since you got on the train this morning threatens to spark up again, pounding dully against your skull like a speaker pumping underwater.Β
Itβs just the travel. Travel, and inhaling shit air, and eating shit food, and being all cramped up. Youβre not even sure you ate. Hard to tell when each day bleeds into the next and time goes by a million miles an hour and not at all.Β
Small feet and hands dig into the flesh of your thighs and stomach. The twins settle either side of your waist, gurgling and babbling to themselves. You sit in silence, staring at a patch of carpet, restless nails picking at frayed threads on the tattered armrest. Someone enters the room, voices speak, but it all sounds muffled. It isnβt until Molly pushes a saucer of biscuits under your nose that you come to, blinking heavily and mumbling disjointedly.
βThank you.β
Molly glances at the clock on the wall. Itβs got nine hands, one for Molly, one for Arthur, and one for each of the children. Does she keep a stack of them in a drawer somewhere, to add one on whenever a new one comes along?
βItβs getting late,β she mutters.Β
Is it?
The thought that you might be keeping them up gnaws at you. Youβre about to offer to retire for the evening, to apologise and head off, when Arthur stands. He hums, brows furrowed as though in deep thought, and shuffles into the hallway. As the air grows heavy with silence, your gaze rests back on Molly.Β
βYou know, I might justβ¦β
The words die on your lips. They must have barely been audible, anyway, judging by Mollyβs lack of reaction.
The odd child meanders into the room as you wait for Arthur to return. Billβs at that age where you pretend youβre an adult, unsurprised and unscared. He barely spares you a second glance as he steps over to his mother, asking for the whereabouts of his book onΒ Britainβs Most Dangerous Deepwater Sea-Creatures.Β
Charlieβs not quite there yet, lingering in the hallway and peeking around the doorframe with wide eyes and a long, floppy, pink tongue. Itβs the toy in his hands that catches your eye, a bright green dragon with blue spikes and huge eyes. He holds it around its neck so tight it might just pop off.Β
You beckon him over. His eyes dart to his mother, then back to you, then back to his mother. Then he steels himself and tiptoes towards you.
βY/N.β
He blinks. He looks like heβs going to chicken out and back away.Β
You pull your hand away from the mouth of a teething George, wiping his saliva off on your sleeve and reaching behind your head. Lifting one of the many pendants from around your neck, you slip the chain onto your finger and hold it out to the seven year old in front of you.
βItβs yours, if you want it,β you say softly.
He eyes it timidly, looking up at you, then down at the pendant, then up at you, then back down at the pendant. The pendantβs a photo coin you bought at a museum gift shop when you were young; itβs got a celtic dragon pressed into its centre and waves decorating the rim.
βTake it,β you whisper.Β
He smiles shyly, before snatching the chain with clumsy hands and shuffling away, not taking his eyes off of it for a second. The movement excites the twins, who squeal, and giggle, and squirm in your arms. One of them accidentally slaps you in the face. The other tries to shove their hand in your face, getting their hand stuck in your necklaces.Β
βCome here,β you sigh, taking the soft, small, pudgy hand in yours to ease it out of the knot of chains.Β
Four heavy knocks pound somewhere in the distance.Β
The chains have gotten caught up in your hair, now. The child tugs, and you lurch, dangerously close to getting your fingers tangled up in the mess.Β
A door slams in the distance. The bairn pulls his hand back, threatening to take a chunk of your scalp out with it. You grab hold of his hand again, murmuring for him to keep still, to relax, toΒ stop pulling-
Then, from the doorway, with a kind lilt and a Yorkshire accent that makes your blood run cold as ice, comes a soft, deep voice, and surely you must be ill. Surely, you must have caught some fatal, delayed-onset disease, because the fever that burns at your skin, rippling in waves and numbing your wrists, is anything short of natural.
It hurts. It actuallyΒ hurts.Β
βWhereβd you like βem, Molly?β
You might pass out. Jesus, you can hear your heartbeat squelching in your ears. You can vaguely hear Molly fussing about the time andΒ we were beginning to think you werenβt coming back tonightΒ and-Β
Back?Β
Soft, small hands slap at your wrists when they notice your attention has drifted.Β
What does she mean,Β back?Β
Youβre still trying to untangle the knot in your hair, fingertips trying and failing to set you free. You can just about see the lower half of him where you sit, hunched over, with toddler spit trailing down your forearm and a fist in your hair. You can see the way his shirt sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows; see the sprigs of some kind of plant poking out from the handles of one of the plastic bags in his hands.Β
Heβs grown. Lived. Thrived, even, by the looks of things.Β
Itβs the smallest thing, but it fucks with your head.Β YouΒ havenβt grown, or lived, or thrived at all. Youβre small. Ratty. Shrivelled, even, by the looks of things.Β
As you finally detangle the childβs fingers from your hair, you get a proper look at him. He looks like he has friends. But not like he has to make any effort to keep them. Not even that; like itβs effortless for him to keep them. Like heβs got that kind of quiet magnetism. He looks like the type of guy someone else randomly brings to a night out and every friend of a friend tries to chat him up. Like he barely needs to say a word, but everyone still knows who he is and greets him when they see him.
What must he see when he looks at you?Β
You feel sick.
You can see the exact moment he sees you because he frowns and cocks his head to the side. He says nothing as Mollyβs fusses, eyes fixed on you with his lips barely parted, head half-turned to the side like it wants to tear away but canβt seem to force itself.
Youβve been sat by the fire too long; your face burns from it. Why theyβve lit a fire in mid-june is beyond you.Β
βNow,β Molly says, waving you over, βArthurβs set everything up for you, dear, though Iβve got to warn you, itβs no luxury hotel. That roomβs barely been touched since there were farmers here, and thatβs about fifty years ago, nowβ¦β
When did Arthur come back in?
βAnd Gideon told you about the plumbing, and the-β
βYes,β you interject, heart beating in your throat, now, βYes, thank you. Really, Molly, thank you so much. For everything.β
She carries on, turning to Remus. You feel lightheaded; so lightheaded, and itβs been such a long day and youβreΒ exhausted, and sheβs asked you something now, sheβs actually asked you something and you can see her lips moving but you canβt hear a thing.Β
βSorry,β you say suddenly. βIβm just- Iβm very tired. Could I maybeβ¦?β
Is your voice really loud?
βOf course, dear,β Molly says, prying Arthurβs cup out of his hands. βYou must be exhausted, all that travel. Here, Remusβll walk you down, heβs staying in the other room. Itβs no more than fifteen, twenty minutes down the road - will you manage?β
βYes, I-,β you say, βthatβs fine.β
βYouβre more than welcome to stay here for the night if you like,β Arthur offers, insistently. βI wouldnβt want you walking down to that old shack at this hour of the night, why donβt-β
βSheβs a grown woman, dear,β Molly fusses, reaching over to take Remusβ cup.Β
Whenβd she find time to give him that?
They shoo the boys out and suddenly, in a heartbeat, the room is almost completely empty.Β
Time slows way down, with a force that leaves your stomach surging like youβre on a plane taking a dive. This is the split second where Remusβ nonchalant facade breaks, when he first gets a good, up-close look at your face. Where he gets this look, this far-out and distanced look in his eyes, but you canβt make out what it is. And then it flashes before your eyes, dark and pained and sharp and twisted and itβs like youβve both tapped into the same frequency for the millisecond it takes for the memory to flicker in front of your mindβs eye.Β
Can he see the way your eyes gloss over?
βRemus, dear,β Mollyβs voice tuts from behind him, βWould you mind? Youβre just in the way, love.β
He doesnβt answer, eyes - not wide in surprise like yours, but narrowed; narrowed, unblinking, and concentrated. It fills your stomach with dread. Anything neutral in his surprise has melted away now that heβs had a moment to think and recollect. His forearms flex as he shifts the plastic bag in his hands to readjust the weight, head almost entirely cocked to the side as he stares at you, brows furrowed in something nearing anger and lips parted ever so slightly, like he might want to think about saying something but canβt quite decide what to say.
Surely they must have told him youβd be here?
βRemus?β
He almost jumps then, blinking and tearing his gaze away from you.
ββcourse, Molly.β
His voice echoes in the room after he turns to let her through.
βHere,β Molly says, pulling the bag from your hands before you have a chance to hold on, βRemusβll take that.β
Remus lets out what you can only describe as an affirmative grunt,Β just aboutΒ polite enough for it not to be rude in front of Molly, grabbing your duffel by the strap and swinging it onto his shoulder. Heβs gone out the door before you can say another word.Β
You press a forced smile onto your lips and move to follow.
βWhat time will you be back tomorrow, dear?β
Mollyβs unassuming tone chips away at you for reasons you canβt explain.Β
βNot too late, Molly,β you mumble, tearing your eyes away from his back, flashing her what you hope looks like a tired but genuine smile and heading for the door, βNot too late.β
The old farmhouse down the lane from the Burrow is surrounded by overgrown weeds and old rubber tires. Some of the tires are as wide as you are tall, stacked on top of each other with tufts of green and yellow poking through the gaps in the threads.
The walk itself is less than quiet. He stalks in front of you, never closer than about six feet. Doesnβt even look back to check if youβre in tow. Though to be fair, besides actively diving into the brambles and brush that outline the lane, thereβs not really anywhere you could go.
Bare wooden planks cover the floors, worn down from decades of use. Thereβs a simple, wood-burning stove in the corner of the front room, surrounded by stone walls. There are two doors on the back wall, one on the right, and one on the left. Two doors, two bedrooms.Β
Two tenantsΒ , you remind yourself.Β
This is where you live, now. On Gideonβs request, Molly and Arthur have been generous enough to let you stay here free of charge. Itβs hard to pay rent when you canβt work. No oneβs supposed to know youβre here, either, outside the Prewett-Weasleys.
And Remus Lupin, apparently.Β
What the fuck is he doing here? Youβve not heard a word from or about him inΒ years, literalΒ years, and up he pops, like a jack-in-the-box. Itβs knocked you for six; you drag your bag across the wooden floor into the room heΒ didnβtΒ stalk into and and sit down on the mattress, and then you justβ¦Β sitΒ there, staring out into the darkness until your eyes grow used to it and you can begin to see the outline of the handles on the dresser drawers on the opposite side of the room.Β
Donβt even know how long it takes you to move, strip, and shuffle under the covers, but by the time you do, your joints are stiff and sore and the first signs of daybreak have begun to push through the thinly woven fabric of the curtains.
Remus must be long gone by the time you wake. Itβs unsurprising; judging by how bright the sun is, youβre guessing youβve slept in. You have a vague memory of almost waking a few hours ago and hearing the sound of rushing water outside. Gideon had mentioned that there wasnβt any indoor plumbing, but the way your nightclothes stick to your skin makes the thought of dousing yourself in a bucket of cold water outside a heavenly fantasy come to life.Β
Thereβs no way to get lost on your way back to the Burrow; the farmhouse is at the end of a dead end, so your feet move on auto pilot.Β
Thereβs shouting in the halls as you step through the open back door, echoing up the stairwells. Moving through the kitchen in shoes you probably should take off, you stick your head through the doorway and almost trip over the two tiny streaks of ginger that run into you as they head around the corner. They land on their bottoms and freeze to a halt with big, brown eyes that peer up at you and just look up, and up, and up until they reach your face.Β
You tower over them, a ghastly vision with matted hair and sunken eyes, skin gaunt and discoloured. Moments tick by before you bend down to reach both hands out, one in the direction of either bairn. They blink.
You wiggle your fingers when the bairns donβt move, and something clicks behind their eyes as they heave themselves onto their feet and reach for your hands. Each twin grips two of your fingers tightly as you lead them down the hall, stooped low as they waddle along the tattered carpet in their nappies. You lead the boys through the doorway first, shuffling after them.
Molly stands behind an ironing board, one hand wrapped around a small bundle, the other resting on top of a nearby dresser. Her head darts up when she hears footsteps shuffling along the carpet.Β
βThink these belong to you.β
The boys have taken a liking to you. You canβt imagine why. They cling onto your legs the minute you step into the open kitchen door and babble a thousand innocent questions in your direction without cessation.
Itβs good. Idle hands make great feeding grounds for nervous breakdowns.
Mollyβs got you peeling potatoes by the time Arthur and Remus get back. Heβs working as a sort of farmhand, youβve learned. Though the Weasleys arenβt really farmers, so youβre not sure how that works. But Arthurβs always fancied himself quite the handyman, so odds are heβs got things brewing. Plenty of farmers around these parts anyway, bound to be plenty of work to be done.Β
The spuds rest in a net bag in front of you, a muddy brownish colour with green and yellow eyes poking through the gaps in the mesh. Mollyβs upstairs trying to give the children a bath. Judging by the shrieks and howls echoing down the stairwell, itβs not going very well.
Mollyβs left some record on, some woman warbling out of tune on a track that is ninety-five per cent harp. Itβs got you dissociating, hands moving without thought, carving strips of potato skins onto a board in a steady rhythm. Tuber after tuber gets tossed into the pot. The ever-lasting scent of manure from the nearby fields doesnβt agree with your insides yet, and you can taste the bile on your tongue as the smell of starch and water from the skins hit your nose.Β
Midsummer months bring heavy air, slick with sweetness and humidity and the type of heat that makes your clothes stick to every crevice and plane of you with sweat. You thought it was just you; just a summerβs day of physical labour in a house with terrible ventilation, but the air that hit your cheeks as you stuck your head out of a window in the stairwell was even warmer than the stale air inside. Right now, in the late evening when the fever breaks and a cool shade begins to descend over the fields, it feels like being let out of a car thatβs been left in the sun for too long. Flesh on your cheeks, arms, and legs burning and swollen with warmth, you heave the back door open and inhale deeply through the nose, hand resting on the handle of the door to ground you.Β
Thereβs that smell in the air that you only get in warm, humid places. It settles in your belly and calms your nausea. The bugs donβt even cross your mind. Bugs be damned. The setting sun is painting streaks of orange and pink over the cloudy skies. It feels like a dream, something not quite real, after months of being unable to feel your fingers and toes from piercing frost. For a moment, you feel like the sun could swallow you whole, pick you up and lift you and bring you in on yourself. Youβre not sure how long you linger in the doorway; could be a minute, could be half an hour.
Your chores beckon, and you move to sit at the kitchen table. The soft strumming of the harp in the background seems less intrusive now; maybe itβs because the singer hasnβt sung a note in a minute. The pot begins to fill slowly, and your fingers begin to prune. A bead of sweat trickles down your temple but disappears before it can reach your cheek.
βThought I might find you here.β
Shit.Β You suck in a sharp breath, droplets of crimson trickling down the crease of your thumb. You stick the throbbing digit in your mouth, wincing at the starch residue from the skins.Β
From the corner of your eye, you see him pull a tissue out from a nearby box on the counter. You almost trip on your skirts as you lurch to your feet to grab the handles and heave the pot of potatoes onto the hob, threatening to slosh water all over the chipped tiles in your haste to avoid him trying to give it to you. But he lingers after you, coming up to lean against the counter beside you.Β
Heβs trying. Somewhere, deep down, youΒ knowΒ heβs trying. The fact that heβs even talking to you is something, let alone the tissue hanging limply in his outstretched hand. But you canβt find it in you to pretend that youβre in the mood. Maybe youβre overtired. Maybeβ¦ maybe itβs something else. You yank the tissue out of his grasp unceremoniously, avoiding looking at his face and pressing it to your skin after rinsing it in the sink.
βSo,β Remus says slowly, quietly feigning nonchalance as you wrap the tissue around your thumb, βwhat are you doing here, then?β
When he talks, itβs like heβs trying not to speak too loud. Everything sounds like itβs being murmured in your ear. You half expect to feel his breath on your neck. You remind yourself that heβs got some nerve talking to you in the first place. You purse your lips.
βWhat areΒ youΒ doing here?β
Something changes in Remusβ eyes, then. Itβs like youβve broken some sort of ice.
βIf Iβve done something to offend you,β he begins, eyeing you with calculated caution. Like heβs testing the waters. βOr said somethingβ¦β
βThen Iβll know you havenβt changed,β you supply.Β
You can feel his eyes on you as you turn to the kitchen table and he moves, but he doesnβt follow you, instead lingering in the open space of the kitchen floor. He watches as you scrape peelings into the half-full bucket near the stove and grab its handle, almost yanking it off with the force of it. He makes a point of dipping his head slightly and cocking it to the side as you dry your hands aggressively with a fraying kitchen towel so as to better look you straight in the eye. He keeps his eyes on you unapologetically as you pass him, pushing through to the back door to make your way to the garden.Β
You canβt tell if he follows you out. You donβt want to turn around to look. You stalk towards the compost heap on the far side of the field, a shabby thing held up by rotting planks of wood, poorly nailed together. Must be Arthurβs handiwork. Everything he lays his hands on begins to tear at the seams as soon as heβs done. Heβs got a copy of some DIY manual from 1958 proudly displayed in the sitting room; its spine has almost fully disintegrated and the letters on the front have faded from years opposite a south-facing window, but it remains surrounded by trinkets and charms like a holy book on the mantelpiece.Β
Gnats buzz around your ears. You slop the contents of the bucket onto the growing heap and turn, all too quickly, and nearly jump out of your skin when you see him directly in front of you. The bucket clatters dully against the grass as only plastic can, hitting the ground with the edge of its curved lip and bouncing off behind him.Β
βHeard youβre living here, now. Permanentlyβ
βHearing all sorts of things, you are,β you mutter, almost out of breath as you push past him again and stoop to retrieve the bucket.Β
He beats you to it, snatching it just out of your reach.
βSomething about you needing to get away from something?β
βWhat do you care.β
Swipe. Miss.Β
βOf course I care,β he drawls, walking backwards with quick, hurried steps to stay ahead of you as you move to lunge for the bucket. βWhat, your folks finally given up on ya?β
βWell youβd know all about that, wouldnβt you?β
Itβs a nasty thing to say. Itβs really nasty. So nasty it makes you feel repulsed that you could even formulate such a thought, let alone choose to say it out loud. BecauseΒ heΒ was at least partly joking, and thereβs no way you can spin it so you donβt look like a horrible, horrible person. His feet stumble as his expression falls, face becoming slack. And in that moment he looks every bit the beautiful, tormented twenty-five year old he is. Golden, freckled skin glows in the setting sun; bright green eyes pained and beaten.
Then he pulls himself together.Β
βSee you havenβt changed either.β
Thatβs a bit uncalled for. Youβve never had a go at him because of his parents before, and you donβt appreciate the insinuation. It causes you physical pain that he clocked you on the first try, though. It annoys you. Why is he pretending he knows anything about you? Your skin begins to burn again, and your eyes threaten to puff up like youβve been stung.Β
You snatch the bucket out of his hands and stalk back to the main house.Β
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the madonna | chapter two: delusions of goats and fireplaces
summary: It's 1985. The English countryside swells with the day's remains of midsummer heat as you make your way towards the gate, longs strands of grass nipping at your calves.
It's a good time to get away. Old and distant family friends have taken you in against your wildest imagination, following torturous personal circumstances and a recent mental breakdown. Here, where you can live with purpose among people who care about you, you can slowly begin to rest and recover in the secluded privacy of the Burrow.
Now would be a really bad time for you to run into the most traumatic ex-fling of your life, wouldn't it?
pairing: remus lupin x reader
genre: non-magic!AU; farmhand remus!AU
word count: 4k
warnings/tags: blood, injury, mental breakdown, mental health issues (mostly anxiety and depression), shitty parents, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, swearing, mentions of violence, orphanhood, a lot of self-deprecation, tension, pining, arguing, etc.
author's note: cannot believe it's been two years. yikes. have not proofread. enjoy!
chapter index
masterlist
chapter two | delusions of goats and fireplaces
Mollyβs cut a stack of bacon butties so tall it rivals her husband.Β
They balance on a simple, blue plate on the kitchen table, teetering dangerously over the edge like some top-heavy tube man. Molly says theyβre out in one of the far fields today, clearing it out for one of the neighbouring farms. It means a bit of a trek, and it means you need to find something else to put these sandwiches in.Β
You donβt hate the walk up. Youβre restless despite your constant fatigue, itching for movement and sweat and muscle ache. Straws and grasses brush at your ankles as you hike through the parched grasslands, tupperware tucked under one arm and a cooler bag and a flask of Horlicks in the other. Youβve never been up here yourself before; Arthur pointed you in the direction of the Lovegoodβs a couple of days ago, up past the swamps and through the clearing on the other side. Itβs mostly uphill after that, through sloping fields of yellow that have suffered the beating of the sun, and wood lanes overshadowed by leafy giants, cool in the summer heat.Β
Itβs overcast today, for the first time in well over a week, but that doesnβt stop the heat rising from the earth like steam trapped in a saucepan, clouds forming a heavy lid over the dome of your existence. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears, your heavy pants the only sound in an otherwise windless expanse. A bead of sweat trickles down your temple, rubbed away by a brisk forearm that you can barely bear to lift. All the clothes you have, bar what you had on your back the day you arrived, are hand-me-downs that Mollyβs been generous enough to offer you. Itβs almost exclusively skirts; long and flowy with patterns in browns, greens, and oranges that match her hair. Long skirts that she was going to give away anyway, so you donβt have to worry about getting grass stains or dirty marks on them. Your thighs have begun to chafe and as much as youβre enjoying the pain now, like some sort of sweet release and a reminder that youβre alive, youβre afraid of how youβre gonna feel after. Because right now, beneath the bright grey sky and fields that span on as far as the eye can see, itβs hard to picture an βafterβ.Β
But the after finally comes, and it comes in the form of two dark dots moving above the stone walls in the distance. Theyβre by a tree stump near the outskirts of the field when you reach the wall. You can see what theyβve been clearing, now; someoneβs been fly-tipping. Thereβs a path leading into some bushes near the biggest heap of junk; the road they drove up on must be just out the other side.Β
Arthur smiles brightly when he sees you, giving you an animated wave despite the ruddy cheeks that indicate his fatigue.Β
βExcellent timing, my dear. Come!β
Remus is too far away for you to see the look on his face, and maybe you donβt want to look. But youβre happy to take a breather as they make their way towards you, your mouth dry and your breathing almost hoarse. Youβve barely had cause to see him since the bucket incident a few days ago.Β
Arthur reaches you first, gesturing to the stone wall that separates you.Β
βItβs a bit of a tall one, Iβm afraid, and thereβs no way round unless you walk all the way up to the car, but Remusβll help you over in a jiffy. Wonβt you, lad?β
Remus grumbles something unintelligible in response.
βHere, Iβll take thatβ¦β
Free of the tupperware, youβve a hand free to shift your skirt. The seamβs twisted round to your front, and the label thatβs supposed to be at the back is now digging itchily into the flesh of your hip. You smooth the fabric down, ignoring how prickly and oddly numb your fingertips feel.
βWell, come on, then.β
You blink stupidly. Youβd forgotten about the logistics of getting over. Admittedly, climbing a wall might be the thing that finally tips your fatigue over the edge.Β
βWhatβ¦ What do you want me to-β
βOh, for fuck-β
He presses his palms against the top of the wall and pushes himself up over it with ease, landing beside you in a second. You turn to face him, but next thing you know his hands are pressing into your waist and heβs hoisted you up in the air like some rag doll, seating you atop the uneven stones. The straps of the cooler bag dig into your palms as you clumsily swing your legs over the other side and you concentrate on the burn for the second it takes him to jump back over. He doesnβt need to help you down, itβs just a simple drop, but his hand makes its way to the small of your back like itβs on instinct.Β
You stand so close together when your feet touch the ground that you can smell the sweat and humidity off him, but itβs a grounding smell. He catches you when you wobble, just for a brief second. Thatβs when he realises where his hand is, and he pulls back sharply.Β
βI trust Her Highness can make her own way over,β he mutters, stalking away before you can say another word.
Gnats buzz at your ear and you bring your wrist up to rub them away as you watch him. When you finally catch up, you set the tupperware on the stump, handing Arthur the Horlicks flask and dropping the cooler bag on the ground.Β
βOoh,β Arthur says, smiling widely and hurrying to unscrew the cap. He draws a deep sniff through his nose and sighs blissfully. "A cup for you, my boy?β
Remus looks less than impressed.Β
βHave you got nowt else for us?β
He doesnβt even look up at you when he says it, just turns his attention back to the cloth in his hands and the dirt heβs trying to rub off them. Well then.
βThereβs water or Ribena,β you say blandly, nudging the cooler bag over to him with your foot. βThatβs your lot.β
You donβt see if he reacts, turning your back on him and prying open the lid.Β
Then, from over your shoulder and with disinterest;
βTa.β
You watch Arthur as he leans back in his foldable lawn chair. Should you sit down? Are you supposed to? Your endeavours have caught up with you and youβre exhausted, blinking sluggishly.Β
βWhat time is it?β you wonder, distracted by a small bird flailing above a tree just down the way.Β
βWhat do I look like, a bloody sundial?β
Youβre half surprised he heard you as you werenβt sure you actually said it out loud. If you had the energy to care, you would. Instead, you sit down on the grass beside Arthurβs chair and tuck your knees to your side.Β
βMust be awful for the Lovegoods to have people fly-tipping on their lot,β you say, in an effort to make conversation.Β
βOh, no, dear,β Arthur replies animatedly in-between bites, βthis is all theirs. They like to collect things, the Lovegoods. Theyβve just run out of places to put things.β
βA binβ is the first place that comes to mind when you spot the tattered mattress and the curled wires of an old radiator, but knowing the state of Arthurβs shed, you donβt dare say it out loud. But as your eyes accidentally land on Remus, you know youβre not the only one.Β
You didnβt mean to look at him.
The odd chew and swallow are the only things to be heard for the next while. You sit twisting blades of grass and pulling them up, plaiting them together in a makeshift braid that falls apart when you try to knot it. The blades are too dry; they split and break and fray.
You almost lose track of the light as you stumble down the slopes again, veering into tree trunks and tripping over roots and dips and holes. Arthur had asked if you wanted to stay and catch a lift back with them in the truck, but then Remus said something snarky - you canβt remember what - and you figured youβd be better off just heading off yourself. Your eyes glaze over as you find relief in the dusk, head pounding at a steady rhythm matched by your footsteps and ticking away the time it takes you to make it down.Β
By the time youβve stumbled over the doorstep to the kitchen, Mollyβs gripped your arm and shoved the back of her hand against your forehead. Seconds later, youβre lying face down on a mattress in a cool, dark room. Just as your eyes begin to black out, you feel your gut squeeze around itself.Β
Did you eat today?
Straight out the gate, your headβs ringing like a bitch.Β
Thereβs a bee, or a wasp, or something, caught between the curtain and the window pane, buzzing loudly. You donβt know how it got there; you donβt crack the window at night, specifically to keep the bugs out, but judging by the foul taste in your mouth, the sweat on your brow, and the way your eyes screw shut at the slightest glimpse of sunlight bouncing off the wooden walls in your room, you might have to think of something else.Β
You feel nauseous as you shift towards the end of the bed, clutching the bedsheet feebly to your chest. Your hands feel kinda numb. It takes you a few tries to get the window lock open; your hands keep slipping off the small, metal latch. You donβt realise how hot it is until the first trickle of cool breeze seeps in through the crack. Under your arms, your breasts, your knees, youβre slick with sweat, head throbbing heavily.Β
Unsurprisingly, Remus is nowhere to be seen when you finally tiptoe out of your room. The grooves of the wooden floor are cool and uneven against the soles of your feet as you make your way outside. The front door creaks something awful when you undo the lock and push it open. Rough fibres of cloth and bristles scrub away at your skin and under your nails. The waterβs delightfully cold when you finally bring the basin over your head and wash away the soap and grime.
Thereβs no sign of him at the big house, either. Thatβs three days heβs been away now. Havenβt seen him since you caught a glimpse of him over your shoulder, shunting an old mattress onto the back of Arthurβs truck as you set off down the sloping fields again. Something in your brain tugs at the memory of the way the sunlight glinted off his bare arms.Β
You look around the ground floor; Molly and Arthur have taken the kids up to Mollyβs cousinβs for a few days for a family reunion. You barely remembered anything the morning after you passed out, waking up in a dark, musty room in the top landing from Molly tugging gently at your arm, filling you in on the impromptu plans and informing you that there was a casserole for you and Remus left on the stove for later. You half-thought youβd dreamt it when you woke up again hours later, only fitting the puzzle pieces together when you realised youβd been conscious for five minutes without hearing a single raised voice. Itβs strange to see the place so empty, but the opportunity to give it a good airing out without screaming children and clutter flying all over the place is too good an opportunity to miss.
Youβve really been working this place the past three days; clutter is almost completely gone, all you have left is the floors and carpets, maybe some curtains, and opening every window in this building to breathe new life into it. Your hands are raw from soaps and detergents, pins and needles prick at your arms and legs. You take it easy, moving down the hall with careful and intentional steps. Your clothes smell of sweat and theyβre stiff with grime, and you realise theyβre the ones you wore yesterday. You donβt think of much while you eat. Not much comes to mind, really, other than how tired you feel and your desperate need to do some laundry.Β
You set the swollen laundry basket down next to the washer. You donβt know how the dayβs gone by so fast. There is not a speck of dust left in the place. Turns out itβs a lot easier to do a deep clean when you donβt have seven children running around the place every hour of every day. Maybe thatβd be the way to do it, you think as you shove clothes into the machine. Make it a regular thing. Now that youβre helping out, it seems like a missed opportunity.Β
You shrug out of your clothes, peeling your bra and underwear off and tossing them into the now almost-full machine. Rhythmic humming vibrates through the floorboards as you make your way to the airing cupboard for a towel. Lukewarm water soothes your skin, fingertips easing the headache youβve been staving off all day as you lather and rinse. You get distracted as you dry yourself off, pressing softly at the skin on your cheeks and under your eyes to bring some feeling back in your face. You stare at the mirror for a while. The washerβs done by the time you make it back downstairs; your underwear and bra are almost dry from the spin cycle so you pull them on, ditch the towel, and pull the rest of the clothes into the basin.Β
The sun is on the last of its maximum effort when you push open the kitchen door and make your way to the clothes line. Thereβs no one around; other than Molly and Arthurβs lot, you havenβt seen another soul since you arrived. Todayβs been an absolute sweltering mess; staying indoors has meant youβve had at least some semblance of shade, and you canβt imagine many others are braving the scorching temperatures to leg it all the way into the middle of nowhere to drop by in the middle of the work week.Β
You hang the clothes on the line as the sun slowly begins to set, relishing in the cool relief of fresh air on your skin thatβs still slightly warm with sunburn. You rest a hand on the back of a plastic garden chair as you watch the colours flit across the sky, and in this moment you feel like you could just stay here, right here, forever. The deep breath you take in through your nose is sweet and full, calming your beating heart as you gently exhale. Itβs just you, the sun, and the birds flying in a pattern only they know over the tops of the trees in the distance. You watch as the tip of the tail of the last bird disappears over the horizon.Β
βSome view to come home to, that.β
Shit.Β
You forgot about him.
Your neck almost cracks as you whip around. Heβs leaning against the corner of the house - he must have come from the town road - arms crossed with narrowed, unkind eyes. Itβs glaringly obvious that heβs not talking about the birds, nor is he talking about the sunset thatβs nearing its end behind you.Β
You grab the nearest thing you see, ripping it off the line and bolting for the kitchen. The plastic pegs scatter among the tufts of grass, a rogue sock slipping off the line in the scuffle. He pushes himself off the wall in less than a heartbeat and sprints, beating you to the door by a second and reaching to lean against the doorframe just as you try to push through. He doesnβt budge. You tug the dress over your head, hair tousled and eyes looking anywhere but him as you ignore the bits of gravel that dig into the soles of your feet. You try to push through again, a bit more sophisticated now in your damp decency, but he still does not budge.Β
You feel his gaze on your face. It burns. All of it. Your skin, your hair, your nails, your eyeballs, it all burns. Youβve half a mind to grab the bristled brush from the farmhouse and start scrubbing until you see red. Your skin itches with it. You canβt even say heβs looking at you cheekily, not even with a semblance of lust. Itβs sheer arrogance, eyes sparkling with the delight of having put you in a position of distress. Like itβs a treat for him to make you feel this way.Β
βLet me though,β you mutter, eyes locked on the kitchen beyond his outstretched arm.Β
βOh, now-β
βIβm serious, let-β
βWhy the rush? I mean, youβve been fine out here for so long,β he says, feigning concern. The hubris in his voice makes you feel physically ill. So, heβs been watching you for a while, then. The greater the effort, the greater the reward, it would seem.Β
βTeaβs not gonna put itself on,β you insist, gripping his forearm weakly and attempting to pull it off the frame. Any relief you felt on your skin is long gone, the burning, sweltering sensation has returned tenfold.
After a minute or two he indulges you, standing up so you can just about squeeze past.Β
βWouldnβt want to go hungry, would we?β
You ignore him as you pull a saucepan out from under the counter and accidentally slam it onto the stovetop. You try not to think of him standing there, watching your every movement. The day that had seemed so liberating suddenly seems so far away. A thought strikes you as you grab the container out of the fridge, has he been on the drink?Β
You scoop spoonfuls of casserole into the saucepan. More than half of it remains in the container once youβre done; Molly had calculated portions for the both of you, but he hasnβt been in at all.Β
Your hands move on autopilot, twisting unsuccessfully at the lid of the jar of radishes Molly insisted you finish before they got home.Β
"Come on," you mutter under your breath, slamming the lip of the jar on the edge of the wooden table.Β
"Well, Jesus, don't whack it like that,β Remus huffs, snatching it from your grip. You hadnβt even noticed him cross the room. He pops the lid off and hands it back to you wordlessly, taking a seat at the table and pulling a paperback from his jacket pocket.Β
He reads while he eats. Heβs half done before you even pick up your fork. You push your food around your plate, the dayβs heat putting a permanent damper on most of your appetite, humiliation taking care of the rest. Thereβs a low hum in the air.
βYou make this?β
Itβs so monotonous youβre not even sure he said anything.Β
βHm?β
He swallows, eyes not lifting from the yellowed pages.Β
βDβyou make this?β
You stare at him for a second. Your shoulders tense; undoubtedly heβs found something to criticise you for.
βWhy?β
He frowns, then looks up. Then he shrugs.
βItβs nice.β
You blink.Β
βOh.β
You stare at each other for a minute, before he raises his eyebrows as if to say βwell?β
βNo,β you say slowly. βNo. Uh, Molly did.β
He grunts in response.Β
You watch as he takes both his plate and your own and heads over to the sink. Plates washed, he dries his hands with the towel slung over one of the chairs and picks up his book. Your eyes donβt leave him for a second as he takes a seat on the step leading out to the garden. He stretches his legs out, back leaning against the doorframe and the book settled snugly between his fingers, resting in his palm.Β
A strange feeling comes over you as you sit and watch him. Itβs a sensitive thing, a bodyβsΒ memory. Sitting in this kitchen, staring out as the final remnants of a sunset paint the sky, you feel tugs at the end of your mind. Flashes of young children running about the house, barefoot with dirty soles from playing in the grass all day. Plastic cups with faded floral patterns on them, resting on the kitchen table, filled with water turned lukewarm in the heat. And a small, slender, freckled boy with green eyes and dark blond hair, hands outstretched to pull you with him. Eyes wide and eager to show you the ropes, the feeling of bark underneath your palms and scrapes that bleed and burn on your knees.Β
You see the boy again, but heβs taller now, more confident. Heβs starting to grow into his features now. He avoids looking at you when he can, clammy hands no longer outstretched, no longer eager to pull you with him. Content to leave you behind. The sun still beats down on the grass, its yellowing tips crunching slightly under your toes.Β
You see him again, older and broader, but this is where your tolerance ends. You cannot, will not reminisce. You tear your eyes away from him and wipe your palms on your dress.Β
But itβs too late. Thereβs a sharp pain in your stomach, and youβve wandered into dangerous territory. However you knew him before, however he knew you, itβs gone. Gone are the eyes that used to steal quick glances when they thought no one noticed. Gone are the slight and innocent touches, gone is the feeling of warmth, the feeling of mattering, the feeling of hope. Gone is the boy who made you feel like you meant something to him.Β
Your heart aches. Then you pull yourself up. You may not know him now, but you knew him then. And surely that must count for something.
The breeze that sweeps across your skin as you step over the ledge and take a seat on the step is cool and fresh. You stretch your legs out, crossing at the ankles, and lean against the other side of the doorframe. The ache of the dayβs physical efforts starts to sink in, and you let your eyelids slowly fall shut.
You hear the light brushes as he turns each page. Once the last light starts to disappear from behind your eyelids, you slowly open them again, turning your head slightly so your eyes land on him. His features are poorly lit, his outline glowing from the golden reach of the kitchen light. A slight frown makes itself known as his eyes skim over the page.
βWhat?β he says quietly, looking over in your direction but not meeting your eyeline.Β
You didnβt think heβd noticed. You stifle a grunt as you push yourself off the corroded stone step, small, sharp bits of gravel sticking into your palms.Β
βJust thought you might want some company,β you mutter.Β
Without looking his way, you start walking and donβt stop until you reach the farm house.
Molly says you can move in permanently if you want. That theyβd be happy to have you, but they just donβt know what youβd want with a derelict, old farmhouse. She doesnβt mean it. You canβt imagine she means it. Sheβs just being polite. But itβs sparked a train of thought in you, a train of thought that for the first time ever imagines a reality in which you have a life; a job, family, maybe even friends if you play your cards right. A reality where you have other people around you, who actually want to be around you and find you interesting, and funny, and smart.Β Β Β
You find yourself imagining pieces of furniture in the front room, lighting fires in the stove and the smells of stews and pies and fresh air and green grass. Maybe a dog, or a goat, or something. Maybe a cat. You could get to town from here; Molly and Arthur would definitely let you catch a lift in the mornings, and you could walk to theirs from here no problem. Maybe you could get a bike. Youβd need one to get in and out of town, to do your shopping. You could put a basket on the front, or have Arthur fasten a wooden crate to it. Heβd definitely want to. Maybe you could even get your own licence; a proper one, and a car to go with it. You could get a kitchen put in. An indoor bathroom. Slowly but surely, piece by piece, plank by plank, the whole place could come together.Β
The kids could come by. Itβd be like having neighbours. They would be neighbours, and you could watch them when Molly and Arthur were busy. You could teach them how to plant vegetables and flowers. You could learn how to plant vegetables and flowers. Carve out a little spot for an allotment. Thereβs enough field to go round, and youβve got the woodlands right down the road.Β
Then the slam of the front door shutting behind you echoes in the empty space, and your head gets real quiet.Β
Jesus Christ.
A loud thud sends you reeling, gasping sharply for air as you jerk out of your tumultuous sleep and roll unceremoniously off the edge of your bed. It doesnβt even hurt properly, not sharply, just a dull ache that rings in your joints as soon as you manage to heave yourself onto your feet again.Β
Itβs still dark out; the deep shadow against the curtain tells you as much. Squinting, you edge towards the door. But thereβs a groan; a loud, pained groan that sounds so vulnerable that you canβt help but be curious.
His head doesnβt even lift to look at you.
βYou lookβ¦β
Awful.
Heβs had the shit kicked out of him. You can barely see him in the dim light, but you can see the way he cradles one arm with the other, like heβs pulled something. He stumbles over obstacles that arenβt even there, careening into the wall with another crash that prompts you into movement.Β
βYeah, Iβ¦β
Then he tips forward dangerously; your arm shoots out to grab him, but he catches himself before you make contact. The world around you moves in slow motion; you donβt know how long it takes for your eyes to focus back on him. Knuckles whitening, he grips the doorframe and hauls himself up again.Β
You could just leave him. He hung around for a few days after the Weasleys got back, after which he disappeared again. You havenβt seen or heard him since. Molly and Arthur donβt seem too phased by his coming and going. βYou know what young men are like. As long as he gets his work done, thereβs no harm done.β
Wordlessly, you prop him against your shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist as you all but drag him into his room, stumbling under his weight. He slumps over the moment he hits the edge of the mattress, head dropping to the sheets. You sink to your knees beside him on the floor, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms and willing away the drowsiness that dances along the outskirts of your line of vision.Β
Youβre still half asleep and itβs weird. His room is weird. It smells weird. Like him. Thereβs two of him now. With the sleep meds youβre on, youβre surprised youβre upright at all. If youβre his best shot, heβs fucked.
βWe should wake someone,β you murmur hazily, shifting to push yourself upwards.Β
βNo, no,β he slurs, hand clamping down on your shoulder with surprising force.
βRemus, Iβm-β
βI know,β he sighs, one eye opening to look at you, βI can see it in your eyes, Y/N.β Then, a lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he leans in so close his nose almost bumps against yours. βYouβre pretty when youβre doped.β
Heβs too fucked for it to be even remotely attractive. Even in your drowsy state, youβre wrinkling your nose and repressing a grimace.Β
βWhatβs hap-β
He hushes you loudly.Β
βSo loud.β
A warm hand comes up sluggishly to rest on your head. You can barely feel the way his thumb only just manages to stroke your hair, but the movement lulls you into a trance, time slowing to a still.
βWhaβ¦β you frown, βwhy is your hand wet?β
Your hand slips up to grab his wrist, but he pulls away.
βSβnot,β he mumbles, barely audible over the sound of him wiping his palm on his shirt.
βItβs in my hair,β you sigh, slipping your own fingers through the strands. βOh, please, just, tell me itβs not something disgusting.βΒ
His eyes widen almost comically.
βChrist, no, sβonly my nosebleed,β he exclaims, trying to sit up. Heβs too woozy, doubles over, knocking your forehead painfully with his own and almost knocking you out with the force of it.
βOw,β you mutter, rubbing your forehead with the heel of your palm.Β
βSome prickβ¦β he grumbles, clutching his head. βI think he mightβve broken it nβ all.β
βWell donβt touch it,β you say, reaching up to grab his finger before he has a chance to prod at the bridge of his nose. Then, softer, this time; βDo you really think itβs broken?β
Remus shakes his head, sighing heavily and leaning back to rest his head against the pillow.Β
βNah.β
βYou sure? You should get it checked-β
He shushes you loudly, hand flinging out at random to swat at yours.Β
βGo to bed.β
βToo tired,β you sigh, putting your head in your hands.Β
βJusβ lie down here, then,β he mumbles, eyes closed, the edges of his words softened with sleep as his hand comes up to rest firmly against the back and side of your head. He pulls you towards him, head landing awkwardly against his chest. Itβs really uncomfortable, but youβre too tired to care. You canβt even formulate a final thought before sleep puts you under again.
Itβs his snores that wake you up. Itβs unsurprising; you hear him every now and again through the wall, but this is more aggressive. Must be the nosebleed.Β
You get up, back stiff from a night of twisted sleep, rubbing your eyes and sneaking a glimpse out beyond the curtain. Your eyes dart to the body in the bed, all but dead to the world.
βFuckβ¦β you mutter under your breath, running a hand through your hair. Then you frown, fingers coming away with clumps of dark red. The mirror on the wall is cracked, but you can clearly see your hair matted with what you remember to be blood, though it takes you a minute to remember how it got there.
You wash and head up to the house. Youβve errands to run with Molly. When you come back, heβs gone.Β
You spot him later that same afternoon, carrying beams on his shoulder from the barn to the truck with Arthur. He looks worse for wear, you can see that from here. Got a black eye, by the looks of it. Heβs supporting the beams with his right arm, wrapping it around the planks as they balance on his right shoulder.Β
Isnβt he left-handed?
The sounds of feet hitting gravel are the only noise to be heard except for the odd grunt coming from the barn approaching on your right.
β-and that shoulderβll be back to normal in no time, my boy,β Arthur remarks, heaving a sack into the back of the truck. He greets you cheerily as you pass, asking about your day. You remind him dinnerβll be in an hour. You glance to his left, discreetly as you can. If Remus notices youβre there, he doesnβt show it.
βCome on, Iβll treat you!β
Arthur beams up at you, well-intentional as ever. Itβs busy in town, even for a Saturday evening.Β
βI donβt, uhβ¦β You pause, trying to think of a viable excuse.
βCome on.β
He opens the door to the pub and holds it open wide, indicating for you to go inside. Thereβs no way out, you suppose. As exhausted as you are from a full day of running errands, youβre in no position to turn him down. Mollyβs got dinner planned in about two hours, so you wonβt be here long. You brace yourself for the sensory overload and step towards him.
Something Molly said in passing a few days ago comes to mind as you push towards the bar. βOh, theyβre rowdy, those boys are. Harmless,β sheβd nodded, βbut rowdy.β
Not that harmless, you think. Whatβd Remus told her, then? Fell into a ditch, or something. Thatβll be it; he fell into a ditch on the walk home from town. Or even better: climbed over a wall for a short cut and fell, landing right on his shoulder. Crunch.Β
You donβt get a black eye from falling off a wall, though. Either Molly is a different level of gullible, or sheβs ignoring it on purpose. He is a grown man, after all. Maybe youβre the only one acting like sheβs your parent.
Arthur leans in, βThey do a brilliant pie and mash. You hungry?β
βOh,β you say, avoiding his gaze and ignoring the way your palms threaten to sweat, βUhβ¦ Isnβt Molly cooking?β
βHungry for a snack, me,β he grins. βPork scratchings?β
You shake your head on impulse.Β
βPacket of crisps? Cheese and onion? Salt and vinegar?β
Head shake. Head shake. Head shake.Β
βSomething to drink? Pint? Glass of wine? Water?β
βWater,β you interject before he can continue. βGlass of water, please.β
βRight you are,β he smiles, turning to the bar expectantly and tapping his fingertips against the surface as he waits with wide eyes. You shift your weight from one foot to the other as you stand awkwardly behind him. Are you hovering? You feel like youβre hovering. Your imposter syndrome is having a field day.Β
βBusy today,β Arthur remarks, pulling a face and looking around. βWhy donβt you go find us somewhere to sit down, dear?β
You nod before you know what youβre doing. You look around a bit too quickly, not actually seeing what it is youβre looking for. The back of your neck starts burning, so you panic and beeline in a random direction. Thereβs people everywhere today; you see a table in the corner, a small one with two mismatched chairs, one of wood and one of a tattered, green velvet-Β
And thatβs when you see him. Two tables away, with a group of three other lads and a couple of girls. The redhead is making him laugh.Β
A lot.Β
Heβs pretty when he laughs. Itβs a lot nicer than the scowl that seems permanently etched into his features up at the house. Here, he seems young; happy, even, grinning into his pint and ducking away from one of his friends as he swats at him. You can barely see the bruising on his face, now. In this light, he looks just like his old self.Β
You stand there for a split second, preparing to back away any second now, but itβs long enough for you to catch his eye. Any trace of the smirk on his face dies immediately. It makes you feel sick. He looks away quickly and nods at the redhead, bringing his pint up to his lips.Β
the madonna | chapter two: delusions of goats and fireplaces
summary: It's 1985. The English countryside swells with the day's remains of midsummer heat as you make your way towards the gate, longs strands of grass nipping at your calves.
It's a good time to get away. Old and distant family friends have taken you in against your wildest imagination, following torturous personal circumstances and a recent mental breakdown. Here, where you can live with purpose among people who care about you, you can slowly begin to rest and recover in the secluded privacy of the Burrow.
Now would be a really bad time for you to run into the most traumatic ex-fling of your life, wouldn't it?
pairing: remus lupin x reader
genre: non-magic!AU; farmhand remus!AU
word count: 4k
warnings/tags: blood, injury, mental breakdown, mental health issues (mostly anxiety and depression), shitty parents, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, swearing, mentions of violence, orphanhood, a lot of self-deprecation, tension, pining, arguing, etc.
author's note: cannot believe it's been two years. yikes. have not proofread. enjoy!
chapter index
masterlist
chapter two | delusions of goats and fireplaces
Mollyβs cut a stack of bacon butties so tall it rivals her husband.Β
They balance on a simple, blue plate on the kitchen table, teetering dangerously over the edge like some top-heavy tube man. Molly says theyβre out in one of the far fields today, clearing it out for one of the neighbouring farms. It means a bit of a trek, and it means you need to find something else to put these sandwiches in.Β
You donβt hate the walk up. Youβre restless despite your constant fatigue, itching for movement and sweat and muscle ache. Straws and grasses brush at your ankles as you hike through the parched grasslands, tupperware tucked under one arm and a cooler bag and a flask of Horlicks in the other. Youβve never been up here yourself before; Arthur pointed you in the direction of the Lovegoodβs a couple of days ago, up past the swamps and through the clearing on the other side. Itβs mostly uphill after that, through sloping fields of yellow that have suffered the beating of the sun, and wood lanes overshadowed by leafy giants, cool in the summer heat.Β
Itβs overcast today, for the first time in well over a week, but that doesnβt stop the heat rising from the earth like steam trapped in a saucepan, clouds forming a heavy lid over the dome of your existence. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears, your heavy pants the only sound in an otherwise windless expanse. A bead of sweat trickles down your temple, rubbed away by a brisk forearm that you can barely bear to lift. All the clothes you have, bar what you had on your back the day you arrived, are hand-me-downs that Mollyβs been generous enough to offer you. Itβs almost exclusively skirts; long and flowy with patterns in browns, greens, and oranges that match her hair. Long skirts that she was going to give away anyway, so you donβt have to worry about getting grass stains or dirty marks on them. Your thighs have begun to chafe and as much as youβre enjoying the pain now, like some sort of sweet release and a reminder that youβre alive, youβre afraid of how youβre gonna feel after. Because right now, beneath the bright grey sky and fields that span on as far as the eye can see, itβs hard to picture an βafterβ.Β
But the after finally comes, and it comes in the form of two dark dots moving above the stone walls in the distance. Theyβre by a tree stump near the outskirts of the field when you reach the wall. You can see what theyβve been clearing, now; someoneβs been fly-tipping. Thereβs a path leading into some bushes near the biggest heap of junk; the road they drove up on must be just out the other side.Β
Arthur smiles brightly when he sees you, giving you an animated wave despite the ruddy cheeks that indicate his fatigue.Β
βExcellent timing, my dear. Come!β
Remus is too far away for you to see the look on his face, and maybe you donβt want to look. But youβre happy to take a breather as they make their way towards you, your mouth dry and your breathing almost hoarse. Youβve barely had cause to see him since the bucket incident a few days ago.Β
Arthur reaches you first, gesturing to the stone wall that separates you.Β
βItβs a bit of a tall one, Iβm afraid, and thereβs no way round unless you walk all the way up to the car, but Remusβll help you over in a jiffy. Wonβt you, lad?β
Remus grumbles something unintelligible in response.
βHere, Iβll take thatβ¦β
Free of the tupperware, youβve a hand free to shift your skirt. The seamβs twisted round to your front, and the label thatβs supposed to be at the back is now digging itchily into the flesh of your hip. You smooth the fabric down, ignoring how prickly and oddly numb your fingertips feel.
βWell, come on, then.β
You blink stupidly. Youβd forgotten about the logistics of getting over. Admittedly, climbing a wall might be the thing that finally tips your fatigue over the edge.Β
βWhatβ¦ What do you want me to-β
βOh, for fuck-β
He presses his palms against the top of the wall and pushes himself up over it with ease, landing beside you in a second. You turn to face him, but next thing you know his hands are pressing into your waist and heβs hoisted you up in the air like some rag doll, seating you atop the uneven stones. The straps of the cooler bag dig into your palms as you clumsily swing your legs over the other side and you concentrate on the burn for the second it takes him to jump back over. He doesnβt need to help you down, itβs just a simple drop, but his hand makes its way to the small of your back like itβs on instinct.Β
You stand so close together when your feet touch the ground that you can smell the sweat and humidity off him, but itβs a grounding smell. He catches you when you wobble, just for a brief second. Thatβs when he realises where his hand is, and he pulls back sharply.Β
βI trust Her Highness can make her own way over,β he mutters, stalking away before you can say another word.
Gnats buzz at your ear and you bring your wrist up to rub them away as you watch him. When you finally catch up, you set the tupperware on the stump, handing Arthur the Horlicks flask and dropping the cooler bag on the ground.Β
βOoh,β Arthur says, smiling widely and hurrying to unscrew the cap. He draws a deep sniff through his nose and sighs blissfully. "A cup for you, my boy?β
Remus looks less than impressed.Β
βHave you got nowt else for us?β
He doesnβt even look up at you when he says it, just turns his attention back to the cloth in his hands and the dirt heβs trying to rub off them. Well then.
βThereβs water or Ribena,β you say blandly, nudging the cooler bag over to him with your foot. βThatβs your lot.β
You donβt see if he reacts, turning your back on him and prying open the lid.Β
Then, from over your shoulder and with disinterest;
βTa.β
You watch Arthur as he leans back in his foldable lawn chair. Should you sit down? Are you supposed to? Your endeavours have caught up with you and youβre exhausted, blinking sluggishly.Β
βWhat time is it?β you wonder, distracted by a small bird flailing above a tree just down the way.Β
βWhat do I look like, a bloody sundial?β
Youβre half surprised he heard you as you werenβt sure you actually said it out loud. If you had the energy to care, you would. Instead, you sit down on the grass beside Arthurβs chair and tuck your knees to your side.Β
βMust be awful for the Lovegoods to have people fly-tipping on their lot,β you say, in an effort to make conversation.Β
βOh, no, dear,β Arthur replies animatedly in-between bites, βthis is all theirs. They like to collect things, the Lovegoods. Theyβve just run out of places to put things.β
βA binβ is the first place that comes to mind when you spot the tattered mattress and the curled wires of an old radiator, but knowing the state of Arthurβs shed, you donβt dare say it out loud. But as your eyes accidentally land on Remus, you know youβre not the only one.Β
You didnβt mean to look at him.
The odd chew and swallow are the only things to be heard for the next while. You sit twisting blades of grass and pulling them up, plaiting them together in a makeshift braid that falls apart when you try to knot it. The blades are too dry; they split and break and fray.
You almost lose track of the light as you stumble down the slopes again, veering into tree trunks and tripping over roots and dips and holes. Arthur had asked if you wanted to stay and catch a lift back with them in the truck, but then Remus said something snarky - you canβt remember what - and you figured youβd be better off just heading off yourself. Your eyes glaze over as you find relief in the dusk, head pounding at a steady rhythm matched by your footsteps and ticking away the time it takes you to make it down.Β
By the time youβve stumbled over the doorstep to the kitchen, Mollyβs gripped your arm and shoved the back of her hand against your forehead. Seconds later, youβre lying face down on a mattress in a cool, dark room. Just as your eyes begin to black out, you feel your gut squeeze around itself.Β
Did you eat today?
Straight out the gate, your headβs ringing like a bitch.Β
Thereβs a bee, or a wasp, or something, caught between the curtain and the window pane, buzzing loudly. You donβt know how it got there; you donβt crack the window at night, specifically to keep the bugs out, but judging by the foul taste in your mouth, the sweat on your brow, and the way your eyes screw shut at the slightest glimpse of sunlight bouncing off the wooden walls in your room, you might have to think of something else.Β
You feel nauseous as you shift towards the end of the bed, clutching the bedsheet feebly to your chest. Your hands feel kinda numb. It takes you a few tries to get the window lock open; your hands keep slipping off the small, metal latch. You donβt realise how hot it is until the first trickle of cool breeze seeps in through the crack. Under your arms, your breasts, your knees, youβre slick with sweat, head throbbing heavily.Β
Unsurprisingly, Remus is nowhere to be seen when you finally tiptoe out of your room. The grooves of the wooden floor are cool and uneven against the soles of your feet as you make your way outside. The front door creaks something awful when you undo the lock and push it open. Rough fibres of cloth and bristles scrub away at your skin and under your nails. The waterβs delightfully cold when you finally bring the basin over your head and wash away the soap and grime.
Thereβs no sign of him at the big house, either. Thatβs three days heβs been away now. Havenβt seen him since you caught a glimpse of him over your shoulder, shunting an old mattress onto the back of Arthurβs truck as you set off down the sloping fields again. Something in your brain tugs at the memory of the way the sunlight glinted off his bare arms.Β
You look around the ground floor; Molly and Arthur have taken the kids up to Mollyβs cousinβs for a few days for a family reunion. You barely remembered anything the morning after you passed out, waking up in a dark, musty room in the top landing from Molly tugging gently at your arm, filling you in on the impromptu plans and informing you that there was a casserole for you and Remus left on the stove for later. You half-thought youβd dreamt it when you woke up again hours later, only fitting the puzzle pieces together when you realised youβd been conscious for five minutes without hearing a single raised voice. Itβs strange to see the place so empty, but the opportunity to give it a good airing out without screaming children and clutter flying all over the place is too good an opportunity to miss.
Youβve really been working this place the past three days; clutter is almost completely gone, all you have left is the floors and carpets, maybe some curtains, and opening every window in this building to breathe new life into it. Your hands are raw from soaps and detergents, pins and needles prick at your arms and legs. You take it easy, moving down the hall with careful and intentional steps. Your clothes smell of sweat and theyβre stiff with grime, and you realise theyβre the ones you wore yesterday. You donβt think of much while you eat. Not much comes to mind, really, other than how tired you feel and your desperate need to do some laundry.Β
You set the swollen laundry basket down next to the washer. You donβt know how the dayβs gone by so fast. There is not a speck of dust left in the place. Turns out itβs a lot easier to do a deep clean when you donβt have seven children running around the place every hour of every day. Maybe thatβd be the way to do it, you think as you shove clothes into the machine. Make it a regular thing. Now that youβre helping out, it seems like a missed opportunity.Β
You shrug out of your clothes, peeling your bra and underwear off and tossing them into the now almost-full machine. Rhythmic humming vibrates through the floorboards as you make your way to the airing cupboard for a towel. Lukewarm water soothes your skin, fingertips easing the headache youβve been staving off all day as you lather and rinse. You get distracted as you dry yourself off, pressing softly at the skin on your cheeks and under your eyes to bring some feeling back in your face. You stare at the mirror for a while. The washerβs done by the time you make it back downstairs; your underwear and bra are almost dry from the spin cycle so you pull them on, ditch the towel, and pull the rest of the clothes into the basin.Β
The sun is on the last of its maximum effort when you push open the kitchen door and make your way to the clothes line. Thereβs no one around; other than Molly and Arthurβs lot, you havenβt seen another soul since you arrived. Todayβs been an absolute sweltering mess; staying indoors has meant youβve had at least some semblance of shade, and you canβt imagine many others are braving the scorching temperatures to leg it all the way into the middle of nowhere to drop by in the middle of the work week.Β
You hang the clothes on the line as the sun slowly begins to set, relishing in the cool relief of fresh air on your skin thatβs still slightly warm with sunburn. You rest a hand on the back of a plastic garden chair as you watch the colours flit across the sky, and in this moment you feel like you could just stay here, right here, forever. The deep breath you take in through your nose is sweet and full, calming your beating heart as you gently exhale. Itβs just you, the sun, and the birds flying in a pattern only they know over the tops of the trees in the distance. You watch as the tip of the tail of the last bird disappears over the horizon.Β
βSome view to come home to, that.β
Shit.Β
You forgot about him.
Your neck almost cracks as you whip around. Heβs leaning against the corner of the house - he must have come from the town road - arms crossed with narrowed, unkind eyes. Itβs glaringly obvious that heβs not talking about the birds, nor is he talking about the sunset thatβs nearing its end behind you.Β
You grab the nearest thing you see, ripping it off the line and bolting for the kitchen. The plastic pegs scatter among the tufts of grass, a rogue sock slipping off the line in the scuffle. He pushes himself off the wall in less than a heartbeat and sprints, beating you to the door by a second and reaching to lean against the doorframe just as you try to push through. He doesnβt budge. You tug the dress over your head, hair tousled and eyes looking anywhere but him as you ignore the bits of gravel that dig into the soles of your feet. You try to push through again, a bit more sophisticated now in your damp decency, but he still does not budge.Β
You feel his gaze on your face. It burns. All of it. Your skin, your hair, your nails, your eyeballs, it all burns. Youβve half a mind to grab the bristled brush from the farmhouse and start scrubbing until you see red. Your skin itches with it. You canβt even say heβs looking at you cheekily, not even with a semblance of lust. Itβs sheer arrogance, eyes sparkling with the delight of having put you in a position of distress. Like itβs a treat for him to make you feel this way.Β
βLet me though,β you mutter, eyes locked on the kitchen beyond his outstretched arm.Β
βOh, now-β
βIβm serious, let-β
βWhy the rush? I mean, youβve been fine out here for so long,β he says, feigning concern. The hubris in his voice makes you feel physically ill. So, heβs been watching you for a while, then. The greater the effort, the greater the reward, it would seem.Β
βTeaβs not gonna put itself on,β you insist, gripping his forearm weakly and attempting to pull it off the frame. Any relief you felt on your skin is long gone, the burning, sweltering sensation has returned tenfold.
After a minute or two he indulges you, standing up so you can just about squeeze past.Β
βWouldnβt want to go hungry, would we?β
You ignore him as you pull a saucepan out from under the counter and accidentally slam it onto the stovetop. You try not to think of him standing there, watching your every movement. The day that had seemed so liberating suddenly seems so far away. A thought strikes you as you grab the container out of the fridge, has he been on the drink?Β
You scoop spoonfuls of casserole into the saucepan. More than half of it remains in the container once youβre done; Molly had calculated portions for the both of you, but he hasnβt been in at all.Β
Your hands move on autopilot, twisting unsuccessfully at the lid of the jar of radishes Molly insisted you finish before they got home.Β
"Come on," you mutter under your breath, slamming the lip of the jar on the edge of the wooden table.Β
"Well, Jesus, don't whack it like that,β Remus huffs, snatching it from your grip. You hadnβt even noticed him cross the room. He pops the lid off and hands it back to you wordlessly, taking a seat at the table and pulling a paperback from his jacket pocket.Β
He reads while he eats. Heβs half done before you even pick up your fork. You push your food around your plate, the dayβs heat putting a permanent damper on most of your appetite, humiliation taking care of the rest. Thereβs a low hum in the air.
βYou make this?β
Itβs so monotonous youβre not even sure he said anything.Β
βHm?β
He swallows, eyes not lifting from the yellowed pages.Β
βDβyou make this?β
You stare at him for a second. Your shoulders tense; undoubtedly heβs found something to criticise you for.
βWhy?β
He frowns, then looks up. Then he shrugs.
βItβs nice.β
You blink.Β
βOh.β
You stare at each other for a minute, before he raises his eyebrows as if to say βwell?β
βNo,β you say slowly. βNo. Uh, Molly did.β
He grunts in response.Β
You watch as he takes both his plate and your own and heads over to the sink. Plates washed, he dries his hands with the towel slung over one of the chairs and picks up his book. Your eyes donβt leave him for a second as he takes a seat on the step leading out to the garden. He stretches his legs out, back leaning against the doorframe and the book settled snugly between his fingers, resting in his palm.Β
A strange feeling comes over you as you sit and watch him. Itβs a sensitive thing, a bodyβsΒ memory. Sitting in this kitchen, staring out as the final remnants of a sunset paint the sky, you feel tugs at the end of your mind. Flashes of young children running about the house, barefoot with dirty soles from playing in the grass all day. Plastic cups with faded floral patterns on them, resting on the kitchen table, filled with water turned lukewarm in the heat. And a small, slender, freckled boy with green eyes and dark blond hair, hands outstretched to pull you with him. Eyes wide and eager to show you the ropes, the feeling of bark underneath your palms and scrapes that bleed and burn on your knees.Β
You see the boy again, but heβs taller now, more confident. Heβs starting to grow into his features now. He avoids looking at you when he can, clammy hands no longer outstretched, no longer eager to pull you with him. Content to leave you behind. The sun still beats down on the grass, its yellowing tips crunching slightly under your toes.Β
You see him again, older and broader, but this is where your tolerance ends. You cannot, will not reminisce. You tear your eyes away from him and wipe your palms on your dress.Β
But itβs too late. Thereβs a sharp pain in your stomach, and youβve wandered into dangerous territory. However you knew him before, however he knew you, itβs gone. Gone are the eyes that used to steal quick glances when they thought no one noticed. Gone are the slight and innocent touches, gone is the feeling of warmth, the feeling of mattering, the feeling of hope. Gone is the boy who made you feel like you meant something to him.Β
Your heart aches. Then you pull yourself up. You may not know him now, but you knew him then. And surely that must count for something.
The breeze that sweeps across your skin as you step over the ledge and take a seat on the step is cool and fresh. You stretch your legs out, crossing at the ankles, and lean against the other side of the doorframe. The ache of the dayβs physical efforts starts to sink in, and you let your eyelids slowly fall shut.
You hear the light brushes as he turns each page. Once the last light starts to disappear from behind your eyelids, you slowly open them again, turning your head slightly so your eyes land on him. His features are poorly lit, his outline glowing from the golden reach of the kitchen light. A slight frown makes itself known as his eyes skim over the page.
βWhat?β he says quietly, looking over in your direction but not meeting your eyeline.Β
You didnβt think heβd noticed. You stifle a grunt as you push yourself off the corroded stone step, small, sharp bits of gravel sticking into your palms.Β
βJust thought you might want some company,β you mutter.Β
Without looking his way, you start walking and donβt stop until you reach the farm house.
Molly says you can move in permanently if you want. That theyβd be happy to have you, but they just donβt know what youβd want with a derelict, old farmhouse. She doesnβt mean it. You canβt imagine she means it. Sheβs just being polite. But itβs sparked a train of thought in you, a train of thought that for the first time ever imagines a reality in which you have a life; a job, family, maybe even friends if you play your cards right. A reality where you have other people around you, who actually want to be around you and find you interesting, and funny, and smart.Β Β Β
You find yourself imagining pieces of furniture in the front room, lighting fires in the stove and the smells of stews and pies and fresh air and green grass. Maybe a dog, or a goat, or something. Maybe a cat. You could get to town from here; Molly and Arthur would definitely let you catch a lift in the mornings, and you could walk to theirs from here no problem. Maybe you could get a bike. Youβd need one to get in and out of town, to do your shopping. You could put a basket on the front, or have Arthur fasten a wooden crate to it. Heβd definitely want to. Maybe you could even get your own licence; a proper one, and a car to go with it. You could get a kitchen put in. An indoor bathroom. Slowly but surely, piece by piece, plank by plank, the whole place could come together.Β
The kids could come by. Itβd be like having neighbours. They would be neighbours, and you could watch them when Molly and Arthur were busy. You could teach them how to plant vegetables and flowers. You could learn how to plant vegetables and flowers. Carve out a little spot for an allotment. Thereβs enough field to go round, and youβve got the woodlands right down the road.Β
Then the slam of the front door shutting behind you echoes in the empty space, and your head gets real quiet.Β
Jesus Christ.
A loud thud sends you reeling, gasping sharply for air as you jerk out of your tumultuous sleep and roll unceremoniously off the edge of your bed. It doesnβt even hurt properly, not sharply, just a dull ache that rings in your joints as soon as you manage to heave yourself onto your feet again.Β
Itβs still dark out; the deep shadow against the curtain tells you as much. Squinting, you edge towards the door. But thereβs a groan; a loud, pained groan that sounds so vulnerable that you canβt help but be curious.
His head doesnβt even lift to look at you.
βYou lookβ¦β
Awful.
Heβs had the shit kicked out of him. You can barely see him in the dim light, but you can see the way he cradles one arm with the other, like heβs pulled something. He stumbles over obstacles that arenβt even there, careening into the wall with another crash that prompts you into movement.Β
βYeah, Iβ¦β
Then he tips forward dangerously; your arm shoots out to grab him, but he catches himself before you make contact. The world around you moves in slow motion; you donβt know how long it takes for your eyes to focus back on him. Knuckles whitening, he grips the doorframe and hauls himself up again.Β
You could just leave him. He hung around for a few days after the Weasleys got back, after which he disappeared again. You havenβt seen or heard him since. Molly and Arthur donβt seem too phased by his coming and going. βYou know what young men are like. As long as he gets his work done, thereβs no harm done.β
Wordlessly, you prop him against your shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist as you all but drag him into his room, stumbling under his weight. He slumps over the moment he hits the edge of the mattress, head dropping to the sheets. You sink to your knees beside him on the floor, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms and willing away the drowsiness that dances along the outskirts of your line of vision.Β
Youβre still half asleep and itβs weird. His room is weird. It smells weird. Like him. Thereβs two of him now. With the sleep meds youβre on, youβre surprised youβre upright at all. If youβre his best shot, heβs fucked.
βWe should wake someone,β you murmur hazily, shifting to push yourself upwards.Β
βNo, no,β he slurs, hand clamping down on your shoulder with surprising force.
βRemus, Iβm-β
βI know,β he sighs, one eye opening to look at you, βI can see it in your eyes, Y/N.β Then, a lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he leans in so close his nose almost bumps against yours. βYouβre pretty when youβre doped.β
Heβs too fucked for it to be even remotely attractive. Even in your drowsy state, youβre wrinkling your nose and repressing a grimace.Β
βWhatβs hap-β
He hushes you loudly.Β
βSo loud.β
A warm hand comes up sluggishly to rest on your head. You can barely feel the way his thumb only just manages to stroke your hair, but the movement lulls you into a trance, time slowing to a still.
βWhaβ¦β you frown, βwhy is your hand wet?β
Your hand slips up to grab his wrist, but he pulls away.
βSβnot,β he mumbles, barely audible over the sound of him wiping his palm on his shirt.
βItβs in my hair,β you sigh, slipping your own fingers through the strands. βOh, please, just, tell me itβs not something disgusting.βΒ
His eyes widen almost comically.
βChrist, no, sβonly my nosebleed,β he exclaims, trying to sit up. Heβs too woozy, doubles over, knocking your forehead painfully with his own and almost knocking you out with the force of it.
βOw,β you mutter, rubbing your forehead with the heel of your palm.Β
βSome prickβ¦β he grumbles, clutching his head. βI think he mightβve broken it nβ all.β
βWell donβt touch it,β you say, reaching up to grab his finger before he has a chance to prod at the bridge of his nose. Then, softer, this time; βDo you really think itβs broken?β
Remus shakes his head, sighing heavily and leaning back to rest his head against the pillow.Β
βNah.β
βYou sure? You should get it checked-β
He shushes you loudly, hand flinging out at random to swat at yours.Β
βGo to bed.β
βToo tired,β you sigh, putting your head in your hands.Β
βJusβ lie down here, then,β he mumbles, eyes closed, the edges of his words softened with sleep as his hand comes up to rest firmly against the back and side of your head. He pulls you towards him, head landing awkwardly against his chest. Itβs really uncomfortable, but youβre too tired to care. You canβt even formulate a final thought before sleep puts you under again.
Itβs his snores that wake you up. Itβs unsurprising; you hear him every now and again through the wall, but this is more aggressive. Must be the nosebleed.Β
You get up, back stiff from a night of twisted sleep, rubbing your eyes and sneaking a glimpse out beyond the curtain. Your eyes dart to the body in the bed, all but dead to the world.
βFuckβ¦β you mutter under your breath, running a hand through your hair. Then you frown, fingers coming away with clumps of dark red. The mirror on the wall is cracked, but you can clearly see your hair matted with what you remember to be blood, though it takes you a minute to remember how it got there.
You wash and head up to the house. Youβve errands to run with Molly. When you come back, heβs gone.Β
You spot him later that same afternoon, carrying beams on his shoulder from the barn to the truck with Arthur. He looks worse for wear, you can see that from here. Got a black eye, by the looks of it. Heβs supporting the beams with his right arm, wrapping it around the planks as they balance on his right shoulder.Β
Isnβt he left-handed?
The sounds of feet hitting gravel are the only noise to be heard except for the odd grunt coming from the barn approaching on your right.
β-and that shoulderβll be back to normal in no time, my boy,β Arthur remarks, heaving a sack into the back of the truck. He greets you cheerily as you pass, asking about your day. You remind him dinnerβll be in an hour. You glance to his left, discreetly as you can. If Remus notices youβre there, he doesnβt show it.
βCome on, Iβll treat you!β
Arthur beams up at you, well-intentional as ever. Itβs busy in town, even for a Saturday evening.Β
βI donβt, uhβ¦β You pause, trying to think of a viable excuse.
βCome on.β
He opens the door to the pub and holds it open wide, indicating for you to go inside. Thereβs no way out, you suppose. As exhausted as you are from a full day of running errands, youβre in no position to turn him down. Mollyβs got dinner planned in about two hours, so you wonβt be here long. You brace yourself for the sensory overload and step towards him.
Something Molly said in passing a few days ago comes to mind as you push towards the bar. βOh, theyβre rowdy, those boys are. Harmless,β sheβd nodded, βbut rowdy.β
Not that harmless, you think. Whatβd Remus told her, then? Fell into a ditch, or something. Thatβll be it; he fell into a ditch on the walk home from town. Or even better: climbed over a wall for a short cut and fell, landing right on his shoulder. Crunch.Β
You donβt get a black eye from falling off a wall, though. Either Molly is a different level of gullible, or sheβs ignoring it on purpose. He is a grown man, after all. Maybe youβre the only one acting like sheβs your parent.
Arthur leans in, βThey do a brilliant pie and mash. You hungry?β
βOh,β you say, avoiding his gaze and ignoring the way your palms threaten to sweat, βUhβ¦ Isnβt Molly cooking?β
βHungry for a snack, me,β he grins. βPork scratchings?β
You shake your head on impulse.Β
βPacket of crisps? Cheese and onion? Salt and vinegar?β
Head shake. Head shake. Head shake.Β
βSomething to drink? Pint? Glass of wine? Water?β
βWater,β you interject before he can continue. βGlass of water, please.β
βRight you are,β he smiles, turning to the bar expectantly and tapping his fingertips against the surface as he waits with wide eyes. You shift your weight from one foot to the other as you stand awkwardly behind him. Are you hovering? You feel like youβre hovering. Your imposter syndrome is having a field day.Β
βBusy today,β Arthur remarks, pulling a face and looking around. βWhy donβt you go find us somewhere to sit down, dear?β
You nod before you know what youβre doing. You look around a bit too quickly, not actually seeing what it is youβre looking for. The back of your neck starts burning, so you panic and beeline in a random direction. Thereβs people everywhere today; you see a table in the corner, a small one with two mismatched chairs, one of wood and one of a tattered, green velvet-Β
And thatβs when you see him. Two tables away, with a group of three other lads and a couple of girls. The redhead is making him laugh.Β
A lot.Β
Heβs pretty when he laughs. Itβs a lot nicer than the scowl that seems permanently etched into his features up at the house. Here, he seems young; happy, even, grinning into his pint and ducking away from one of his friends as he swats at him. You can barely see the bruising on his face, now. In this light, he looks just like his old self.Β
You stand there for a split second, preparing to back away any second now, but itβs long enough for you to catch his eye. Any trace of the smirk on his face dies immediately. It makes you feel sick. He looks away quickly and nods at the redhead, bringing his pint up to his lips.Β
summary: It's 1985. The English countryside swells with the day's remains of midsummer heat as you make your way towards the gate, longs strands of grass nipping at your calves.
It's a good time to get away. Old and distant family friends have taken you in against your wildest imagination, following torturous personal circumstances and a recent mental breakdown. Here, where you can live with purpose among people who care about you, you can slowly begin to rest and recover in the secluded privacy of the Burrow.
Now would be a really bad time for you to run into the most traumatic ex-fling of your life, wouldn't it?
pairing: remus lupin x reader
genre: non-magic!AU; farmhand remus!AU
word count: 4k
warnings/tags: blood, injury, mental breakdown, mental health issues (mostly anxiety and depression), shitty parents, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, swearing, mentions of violence, orphanhood, smut (eventually), a lot of self-deprecation, tension, pining, arguing, etc.
author's note: minors DNI! please read the warnings. this series is taking all i have to write, and a lot of it is just me projecting. i hope it resonates with at least some of you.
chapter index
masterlist
chapter one | arrival
The nightβs a dewy one; wet and almost,Β almostΒ , cold, with a fog that hangs heavy around your head.
βY/N.Β SoΒ good to see you, love.β
She means well. The sincerity in her eyes and the warmth in her smile tells you as much. But thereβs something in her voice that sounds aΒ littleΒ too much like pity. Her clammy palm cups your cheek, adding to the itchy layer of grime that seems to coat every inch of your skin.Β
Still, you smile.Β
βMolly.β
She shoves a cup into your hands. Sheβs gone before you have a chance to thank her.Β
Canβt stand this English Breakfast shit.
Placing the cup on the mantle, you wrap an arm around the waist of each twin in the armchair and lift them up before settling in yourself.Β
Every joint in your body aches. Your wrists feel weak, like half the blood has drained from your body. The headache thatβs been brewing since you got on the train this morning threatens to spark up again, pounding dully against your skull like a speaker pumping underwater.Β
Itβs just the travel. Travel, and inhaling shit air, and eating shit food, and being all cramped up. Youβre not even sure you ate. Hard to tell when each day bleeds into the next and time goes by a million miles an hour and not at all.Β
Small feet and hands dig into the flesh of your thighs and stomach. The twins settle either side of your waist, gurgling and babbling to themselves. You sit in silence, staring at a patch of carpet, restless nails picking at frayed threads on the tattered armrest. Someone enters the room, voices speak, but it all sounds muffled. It isnβt until Molly pushes a saucer of biscuits under your nose that you come to, blinking heavily and mumbling disjointedly.
βThank you.β
Molly glances at the clock on the wall. Itβs got nine hands, one for Molly, one for Arthur, and one for each of the children. Does she keep a stack of them in a drawer somewhere, to add one on whenever a new one comes along?
βItβs getting late,β she mutters.Β
Is it?
The thought that you might be keeping them up gnaws at you. Youβre about to offer to retire for the evening, to apologise and head off, when Arthur stands. He hums, brows furrowed as though in deep thought, and shuffles into the hallway. As the air grows heavy with silence, your gaze rests back on Molly.Β
βYou know, I might justβ¦β
The words die on your lips. They must have barely been audible, anyway, judging by Mollyβs lack of reaction.
The odd child meanders into the room as you wait for Arthur to return. Billβs at that age where you pretend youβre an adult, unsurprised and unscared. He barely spares you a second glance as he steps over to his mother, asking for the whereabouts of his book onΒ Britainβs Most Dangerous Deepwater Sea-Creatures.Β
Charlieβs not quite there yet, lingering in the hallway and peeking around the doorframe with wide eyes and a long, floppy, pink tongue. Itβs the toy in his hands that catches your eye, a bright green dragon with blue spikes and huge eyes. He holds it around its neck so tight it might just pop off.Β
You beckon him over. His eyes dart to his mother, then back to you, then back to his mother. Then he steels himself and tiptoes towards you.
βY/N.β
He blinks. He looks like heβs going to chicken out and back away.Β
You pull your hand away from the mouth of a teething George, wiping his saliva off on your sleeve and reaching behind your head. Lifting one of the many pendants from around your neck, you slip the chain onto your finger and hold it out to the seven year old in front of you.
βItβs yours, if you want it,β you say softly.
He eyes it timidly, looking up at you, then down at the pendant, then up at you, then back down at the pendant. The pendantβs a photo coin you bought at a museum gift shop when you were young; itβs got a celtic dragon pressed into its centre and waves decorating the rim.
βTake it,β you whisper.Β
He smiles shyly, before snatching the chain with clumsy hands and shuffling away, not taking his eyes off of it for a second. The movement excites the twins, who squeal, and giggle, and squirm in your arms. One of them accidentally slaps you in the face. The other tries to shove their hand in your face, getting their hand stuck in your necklaces.Β
βCome here,β you sigh, taking the soft, small, pudgy hand in yours to ease it out of the knot of chains.Β
Four heavy knocks pound somewhere in the distance.Β
The chains have gotten caught up in your hair, now. The child tugs, and you lurch, dangerously close to getting your fingers tangled up in the mess.Β
A door slams in the distance. The bairn pulls his hand back, threatening to take a chunk of your scalp out with it. You grab hold of his hand again, murmuring for him to keep still, to relax, toΒ stop pulling-
Then, from the doorway, with a kind lilt and a Yorkshire accent that makes your blood run cold as ice, comes a soft, deep voice, and surely you must be ill. Surely, you must have caught some fatal, delayed-onset disease, because the fever that burns at your skin, rippling in waves and numbing your wrists, is anything short of natural.
It hurts. It actuallyΒ hurts.Β
βWhereβd you like βem, Molly?β
You might pass out. Jesus, you can hear your heartbeat squelching in your ears. You can vaguely hear Molly fussing about the time andΒ we were beginning to think you werenβt coming back tonightΒ and-Β
Back?Β
Soft, small hands slap at your wrists when they notice your attention has drifted.Β
What does she mean,Β back?Β
Youβre still trying to untangle the knot in your hair, fingertips trying and failing to set you free. You can just about see the lower half of him where you sit, hunched over, with toddler spit trailing down your forearm and a fist in your hair. You can see the way his shirt sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows; see the sprigs of some kind of plant poking out from the handles of one of the plastic bags in his hands.Β
Heβs grown. Lived. Thrived, even, by the looks of things.Β
Itβs the smallest thing, but it fucks with your head.Β YouΒ havenβt grown, or lived, or thrived at all. Youβre small. Ratty. Shrivelled, even, by the looks of things.Β
As you finally detangle the childβs fingers from your hair, you get a proper look at him. He looks like he has friends. But not like he has to make any effort to keep them. Not even that; like itβs effortless for him to keep them. Like heβs got that kind of quiet magnetism. He looks like the type of guy someone else randomly brings to a night out and every friend of a friend tries to chat him up. Like he barely needs to say a word, but everyone still knows who he is and greets him when they see him.
What must he see when he looks at you?Β
You feel sick.
You can see the exact moment he sees you because he frowns and cocks his head to the side. He says nothing as Mollyβs fusses, eyes fixed on you with his lips barely parted, head half-turned to the side like it wants to tear away but canβt seem to force itself.
Youβve been sat by the fire too long; your face burns from it. Why theyβve lit a fire in mid-june is beyond you.Β
βNow,β Molly says, waving you over, βArthurβs set everything up for you, dear, though Iβve got to warn you, itβs no luxury hotel. That roomβs barely been touched since there were farmers here, and thatβs about fifty years ago, nowβ¦β
When did Arthur come back in?
βAnd Gideon told you about the plumbing, and the-β
βYes,β you interject, heart beating in your throat, now, βYes, thank you. Really, Molly, thank you so much. For everything.β
She carries on, turning to Remus. You feel lightheaded; so lightheaded, and itβs been such a long day and youβreΒ exhausted, and sheβs asked you something now, sheβs actually asked you something and you can see her lips moving but you canβt hear a thing.Β
βSorry,β you say suddenly. βIβm just- Iβm very tired. Could I maybeβ¦?β
Is your voice really loud?
βOf course, dear,β Molly says, prying Arthurβs cup out of his hands. βYou must be exhausted, all that travel. Here, Remusβll walk you down, heβs staying in the other room. Itβs no more than fifteen, twenty minutes down the road - will you manage?β
βYes, I-,β you say, βthatβs fine.β
βYouβre more than welcome to stay here for the night if you like,β Arthur offers, insistently. βI wouldnβt want you walking down to that old shack at this hour of the night, why donβt-β
βSheβs a grown woman, dear,β Molly fusses, reaching over to take Remusβ cup.Β
Whenβd she find time to give him that?
They shoo the boys out and suddenly, in a heartbeat, the room is almost completely empty.Β
Time slows way down, with a force that leaves your stomach surging like youβre on a plane taking a dive. This is the split second where Remusβ nonchalant facade breaks, when he first gets a good, up-close look at your face. Where he gets this look, this far-out and distanced look in his eyes, but you canβt make out what it is. And then it flashes before your eyes, dark and pained and sharp and twisted and itβs like youβve both tapped into the same frequency for the millisecond it takes for the memory to flicker in front of your mindβs eye.Β
Can he see the way your eyes gloss over?
βRemus, dear,β Mollyβs voice tuts from behind him, βWould you mind? Youβre just in the way, love.β
He doesnβt answer, eyes - not wide in surprise like yours, but narrowed; narrowed, unblinking, and concentrated. It fills your stomach with dread. Anything neutral in his surprise has melted away now that heβs had a moment to think and recollect. His forearms flex as he shifts the plastic bag in his hands to readjust the weight, head almost entirely cocked to the side as he stares at you, brows furrowed in something nearing anger and lips parted ever so slightly, like he might want to think about saying something but canβt quite decide what to say.
Surely they must have told him youβd be here?
βRemus?β
He almost jumps then, blinking and tearing his gaze away from you.
ββcourse, Molly.β
His voice echoes in the room after he turns to let her through.
βHere,β Molly says, pulling the bag from your hands before you have a chance to hold on, βRemusβll take that.β
Remus lets out what you can only describe as an affirmative grunt,Β just aboutΒ polite enough for it not to be rude in front of Molly, grabbing your duffel by the strap and swinging it onto his shoulder. Heβs gone out the door before you can say another word.Β
You press a forced smile onto your lips and move to follow.
βWhat time will you be back tomorrow, dear?β
Mollyβs unassuming tone chips away at you for reasons you canβt explain.Β
βNot too late, Molly,β you mumble, tearing your eyes away from his back, flashing her what you hope looks like a tired but genuine smile and heading for the door, βNot too late.β
The old farmhouse down the lane from the Burrow is surrounded by overgrown weeds and old rubber tires. Some of the tires are as wide as you are tall, stacked on top of each other with tufts of green and yellow poking through the gaps in the threads.
The walk itself is less than quiet. He stalks in front of you, never closer than about six feet. Doesnβt even look back to check if youβre in tow. Though to be fair, besides actively diving into the brambles and brush that outline the lane, thereβs not really anywhere you could go.
Bare wooden planks cover the floors, worn down from decades of use. Thereβs a simple, wood-burning stove in the corner of the front room, surrounded by stone walls. There are two doors on the back wall, one on the right, and one on the left. Two doors, two bedrooms.Β
Two tenantsΒ , you remind yourself.Β
This is where you live, now. On Gideonβs request, Molly and Arthur have been generous enough to let you stay here free of charge. Itβs hard to pay rent when you canβt work. No oneβs supposed to know youβre here, either, outside the Prewett-Weasleys.
And Remus Lupin, apparently.Β
What the fuck is he doing here? Youβve not heard a word from or about him inΒ years, literalΒ years, and up he pops, like a jack-in-the-box. Itβs knocked you for six; you drag your bag across the wooden floor into the room heΒ didnβtΒ stalk into and and sit down on the mattress, and then you justβ¦Β sitΒ there, staring out into the darkness until your eyes grow used to it and you can begin to see the outline of the handles on the dresser drawers on the opposite side of the room.Β
Donβt even know how long it takes you to move, strip, and shuffle under the covers, but by the time you do, your joints are stiff and sore and the first signs of daybreak have begun to push through the thinly woven fabric of the curtains.
Remus must be long gone by the time you wake. Itβs unsurprising; judging by how bright the sun is, youβre guessing youβve slept in. You have a vague memory of almost waking a few hours ago and hearing the sound of rushing water outside. Gideon had mentioned that there wasnβt any indoor plumbing, but the way your nightclothes stick to your skin makes the thought of dousing yourself in a bucket of cold water outside a heavenly fantasy come to life.Β
Thereβs no way to get lost on your way back to the Burrow; the farmhouse is at the end of a dead end, so your feet move on auto pilot.Β
Thereβs shouting in the halls as you step through the open back door, echoing up the stairwells. Moving through the kitchen in shoes you probably should take off, you stick your head through the doorway and almost trip over the two tiny streaks of ginger that run into you as they head around the corner. They land on their bottoms and freeze to a halt with big, brown eyes that peer up at you and just look up, and up, and up until they reach your face.Β
You tower over them, a ghastly vision with matted hair and sunken eyes, skin gaunt and discoloured. Moments tick by before you bend down to reach both hands out, one in the direction of either bairn. They blink.
You wiggle your fingers when the bairns donβt move, and something clicks behind their eyes as they heave themselves onto their feet and reach for your hands. Each twin grips two of your fingers tightly as you lead them down the hall, stooped low as they waddle along the tattered carpet in their nappies. You lead the boys through the doorway first, shuffling after them.
Molly stands behind an ironing board, one hand wrapped around a small bundle, the other resting on top of a nearby dresser. Her head darts up when she hears footsteps shuffling along the carpet.Β
βThink these belong to you.β
The boys have taken a liking to you. You canβt imagine why. They cling onto your legs the minute you step into the open kitchen door and babble a thousand innocent questions in your direction without cessation.
Itβs good. Idle hands make great feeding grounds for nervous breakdowns.
Mollyβs got you peeling potatoes by the time Arthur and Remus get back. Heβs working as a sort of farmhand, youβve learned. Though the Weasleys arenβt really farmers, so youβre not sure how that works. But Arthurβs always fancied himself quite the handyman, so odds are heβs got things brewing. Plenty of farmers around these parts anyway, bound to be plenty of work to be done.Β
The spuds rest in a net bag in front of you, a muddy brownish colour with green and yellow eyes poking through the gaps in the mesh. Mollyβs upstairs trying to give the children a bath. Judging by the shrieks and howls echoing down the stairwell, itβs not going very well.
Mollyβs left some record on, some woman warbling out of tune on a track that is ninety-five per cent harp. Itβs got you dissociating, hands moving without thought, carving strips of potato skins onto a board in a steady rhythm. Tuber after tuber gets tossed into the pot. The ever-lasting scent of manure from the nearby fields doesnβt agree with your insides yet, and you can taste the bile on your tongue as the smell of starch and water from the skins hit your nose.Β
Midsummer months bring heavy air, slick with sweetness and humidity and the type of heat that makes your clothes stick to every crevice and plane of you with sweat. You thought it was just you; just a summerβs day of physical labour in a house with terrible ventilation, but the air that hit your cheeks as you stuck your head out of a window in the stairwell was even warmer than the stale air inside. Right now, in the late evening when the fever breaks and a cool shade begins to descend over the fields, it feels like being let out of a car thatβs been left in the sun for too long. Flesh on your cheeks, arms, and legs burning and swollen with warmth, you heave the back door open and inhale deeply through the nose, hand resting on the handle of the door to ground you.Β
Thereβs that smell in the air that you only get in warm, humid places. It settles in your belly and calms your nausea. The bugs donβt even cross your mind. Bugs be damned. The setting sun is painting streaks of orange and pink over the cloudy skies. It feels like a dream, something not quite real, after months of being unable to feel your fingers and toes from piercing frost. For a moment, you feel like the sun could swallow you whole, pick you up and lift you and bring you in on yourself. Youβre not sure how long you linger in the doorway; could be a minute, could be half an hour.
Your chores beckon, and you move to sit at the kitchen table. The soft strumming of the harp in the background seems less intrusive now; maybe itβs because the singer hasnβt sung a note in a minute. The pot begins to fill slowly, and your fingers begin to prune. A bead of sweat trickles down your temple but disappears before it can reach your cheek.
βThought I might find you here.β
Shit.Β You suck in a sharp breath, droplets of crimson trickling down the crease of your thumb. You stick the throbbing digit in your mouth, wincing at the starch residue from the skins.Β
From the corner of your eye, you see him pull a tissue out from a nearby box on the counter. You almost trip on your skirts as you lurch to your feet to grab the handles and heave the pot of potatoes onto the hob, threatening to slosh water all over the chipped tiles in your haste to avoid him trying to give it to you. But he lingers after you, coming up to lean against the counter beside you.Β
Heβs trying. Somewhere, deep down, youΒ knowΒ heβs trying. The fact that heβs even talking to you is something, let alone the tissue hanging limply in his outstretched hand. But you canβt find it in you to pretend that youβre in the mood. Maybe youβre overtired. Maybeβ¦ maybe itβs something else. You yank the tissue out of his grasp unceremoniously, avoiding looking at his face and pressing it to your skin after rinsing it in the sink.
βSo,β Remus says slowly, quietly feigning nonchalance as you wrap the tissue around your thumb, βwhat are you doing here, then?β
When he talks, itβs like heβs trying not to speak too loud. Everything sounds like itβs being murmured in your ear. You half expect to feel his breath on your neck. You remind yourself that heβs got some nerve talking to you in the first place. You purse your lips.
βWhat areΒ youΒ doing here?β
Something changes in Remusβ eyes, then. Itβs like youβve broken some sort of ice.
βIf Iβve done something to offend you,β he begins, eyeing you with calculated caution. Like heβs testing the waters. βOr said somethingβ¦β
βThen Iβll know you havenβt changed,β you supply.Β
You can feel his eyes on you as you turn to the kitchen table and he moves, but he doesnβt follow you, instead lingering in the open space of the kitchen floor. He watches as you scrape peelings into the half-full bucket near the stove and grab its handle, almost yanking it off with the force of it. He makes a point of dipping his head slightly and cocking it to the side as you dry your hands aggressively with a fraying kitchen towel so as to better look you straight in the eye. He keeps his eyes on you unapologetically as you pass him, pushing through to the back door to make your way to the garden.Β
You canβt tell if he follows you out. You donβt want to turn around to look. You stalk towards the compost heap on the far side of the field, a shabby thing held up by rotting planks of wood, poorly nailed together. Must be Arthurβs handiwork. Everything he lays his hands on begins to tear at the seams as soon as heβs done. Heβs got a copy of some DIY manual from 1958 proudly displayed in the sitting room; its spine has almost fully disintegrated and the letters on the front have faded from years opposite a south-facing window, but it remains surrounded by trinkets and charms like a holy book on the mantelpiece.Β
Gnats buzz around your ears. You slop the contents of the bucket onto the growing heap and turn, all too quickly, and nearly jump out of your skin when you see him directly in front of you. The bucket clatters dully against the grass as only plastic can, hitting the ground with the edge of its curved lip and bouncing off behind him.Β
βHeard youβre living here, now. Permanentlyβ
βHearing all sorts of things, you are,β you mutter, almost out of breath as you push past him again and stoop to retrieve the bucket.Β
He beats you to it, snatching it just out of your reach.
βSomething about you needing to get away from something?β
βWhat do you care.β
Swipe. Miss.Β
βOf course I care,β he drawls, walking backwards with quick, hurried steps to stay ahead of you as you move to lunge for the bucket. βWhat, your folks finally given up on ya?β
βWell youβd know all about that, wouldnβt you?β
Itβs a nasty thing to say. Itβs really nasty. So nasty it makes you feel repulsed that you could even formulate such a thought, let alone choose to say it out loud. BecauseΒ heΒ was at least partly joking, and thereβs no way you can spin it so you donβt look like a horrible, horrible person. His feet stumble as his expression falls, face becoming slack. And in that moment he looks every bit the beautiful, tormented twenty-five year old he is. Golden, freckled skin glows in the setting sun; bright green eyes pained and beaten.
Then he pulls himself together.Β
βSee you havenβt changed either.β
Thatβs a bit uncalled for. Youβve never had a go at him because of his parents before, and you donβt appreciate the insinuation. It causes you physical pain that he clocked you on the first try, though. It annoys you. Why is he pretending he knows anything about you? Your skin begins to burn again, and your eyes threaten to puff up like youβve been stung.Β
You snatch the bucket out of his hands and stalk back to the main house.Β
i rlly want you to continue your "desperate times" fic ! (issokay if you don't want to though) !!
hey!! thank you so much!! sorry i've been so inactive, i don't think i'll be continuing desperate times, but i might be updating 'the madonna' which is a remus x reader fic soon:)
i mean they did also kill jesus. that was a pretty significant thing that happened. like i understand where youβre coming from here but they very much did kill jesus.
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βͺthe one where you give bradley your heart and he breaks it.
Warnings: smut, angst, fluff, unprotected sex, age gap, 18+, swearing, alcohol consumption, hair pulling, small pain kink ig, jealousy
Word Count: 5.3k | Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine β‘
βGod, you feel so good,β Bradleyβs deep voice sent chills down your spine. Your hands trailed up his back and gripped his shoulders as his hips hit yours over and over again. βFuck, baby.β
His words, mixed with his raspy voice, went right to your core, where you greedily sucked him in deeper.
Bradley groaned loudly, dipping his head down to suck on your collar bone. He wasnβt usually one for hickeys at his age, but he found himself loving to both give them and receive them ever since you and he first started this whole situation.
βJust like that,β you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut tightly when you felt his lips pepper kisses all over your neck.Β
βLike this?β He mutters as he fucked into you, making you see stars behind your closed eyes.
βYes,β
One of his hands reaches down to wrap your leg around his waist, making him reach even deeper in you. βYou like that, baby?βΒ
βYes,β you say again, sliding one hand up to tug on his hair. βPlease.β
Bradley grunted at your relentless tugging, the feeling of your fingers threading through his hair adding to the overall pressure currently building within him. βFuck, youβre so hot,β
If he thought you were hot, he must not be aware just how damn near edible he is.Β
He continued to suck mark after mark onto the skin of your neck, all while his hips rocked into yours with a friction that had you digging your nails into his bicep. One thing you both discovered was that Bradley had a bit of a thing for pain. He loved when you marked his skin with your nails or bit on his bottom lip whenever you kissed, but the thing he loved most was when you tugged on his hair in a death grip. The sore scalp and minor headaches heβd endure later on were so worth it.
So, as you raked your nails down his arm, Bradley just grunted against your neck, driving himself impossibly deeper into your inviting walls. βYeah,β he breathed out, lifting his head so his lips brushed against yours. βIβm close, too, baby.βΒ
After doing this with you for nearly half a year, Bradley knew your body like the back of his hand. He knew how to get you off in every way possible, and he knew when you were close to that sweet peak of relief.Β
Using the hand that wasnβt keeping him propped up above you, he presses the pad of his middle finger against your clit, which was still swollen from when he went down on you earlier.Β
The added stimulation had you crying out, your fingers tightening in his hair as you came for the second time since you arrived at his house. βThere you go, give it to me,β he muttered and his words somehow managed to prolong your high. βSo good, letting me fuck you when weβre supposed to be with our friends.βΒ
As he continued to fuck into your warm and inviting core, you keep your hand tangled tightly in his hair and tug a bit harder, knowing that it would add to his pleasure.Β
You were right, as he groaned against your mouth, a mantra of βFuck,β leaving his kiss swollen lips when he came.
He fucks his release deeper into you, your greedy walls taking everything he gave, before he comes to a stop and lays his body gently down on top of yours.Β
You release his hair and softly massage the top of his head, smoothing out the messy strands. As you bask in the afterglow, Bradley presses kisses to your bruised skin, a faint smirk on his lips at the sight of your hickey covered neck.
βIβm gonna miss this for the next six weeks,β he confessed and you had to calm your racing heart before it jumped to any conclusions.Β Β
βWhat? Fucking me?β You ask with a quiet laugh, moving your hand to trace your fingers along his sweaty shoulder.Β
βFucking you,β he confirmed with a nod, making your smile fade a bit as he continued, βKissing you, falling asleep with you in my arms. Just you in general.β
That made your smile reappear, and you moved his head so he was looking into your eyes. βYouβre going to miss me? Or my body?βΒ
Bradley pressed a chaste kiss to your lips. βYou,β he answered before he was standing up and holding his hand out to you. βCome on.β
You take his hand and let him pull you up and off of his comfy bed. βWhere are we going?β
He steadies you in his arms, a proud smirk on his lips at your inability to stand up on your own because of the number he did on you. βSince weβre already half an hour late, why donβt we make our friends wait a bit longer?βΒ
You smile up at him, letting him guide you towards his bathroom. βWhat did you have in mind?β
He kisses you deeply, his free hand tangling into your messy hair. βCome join me in the shower and find out,β
-
You and Bradley showed up a whole hour after your promised arrival time, but neither of you cared too much.
After your shower, you complained that you didnβt have anything you needed at his house, and his reply was one that you were still thinking about now, βYou know, itβd be a lot easier if you just kept some of your stuff at my place. Youβre here all the time, yet youβre still always unprepared for these kinds of things,β he was referring to your complaint that all of your makeup was at your house, and you had just scrubbed your face clean of the natural look you applied before you got there.
βWhat, youβre okay with me keeping my makeup all over your bathroom counter so I can reapply it once youβre done fucking it off me?β You had asked, half joking and half totally serious.Β
βI donβt care, Iβm barely in there, anyway. The room could use some personality,β was his response, and it had your mind thinking about things you didnβt usually allow yourself to dwell on for too long.Β
Nearly six months youβve been sleeping with him. Six months.Β
And itβs been five months since you broke rule number one and fell for him.Β
It was simple, easy, casual.Β
You started out as nothing. You were a friend of Jakeβs, and that in itself was a surprise, so it wasnβt much of a shock when he invited you to go with him to the Hard Deck. When Bradley arrived at the bar a few minutes after you and Jake did, he didnβt pay much attention to the girl under the blondβs arm.
Jake was definitely a ladies man, so to see him with his hand wrapped around a girlβs waist wasnβt all that surprising. He played pool with Nat for a bit before making his way over to the bar, barely acknowledging Jake as he ordered a beer. βHey, Rooster!β The man greeted, his own beer sloshing around in the glass as he moved towards him.Β
βHangman,β Bradley muttered, hoping Penny would hurry up and hand him his drink.Β
βI want to introduce you to my friend, Y/n,βΒ
That had Bradley turning his head in slight curiosity, a little shocked to hear that the girl currently stuck to his side was only a friend. When his eyes meet yours, his stoic expression drops.Β
You were beautiful, to put it simply.Β
He sweet talked his way into getting you to play pool with him, and later ended the night with you sprawled out on the back seat of his Bronco. He found himself under you, on top of you and in you several nights out of the week after that, and now the whole arrangement was about to be hitting the half a year mark.Β
It started out casual; heβd be there when you needed him, and youβd be there when he needed you.Β
The decision to not label it was a mutual one as you both believed it would be the best way to go about things.Β
Only a month in was when you offered to sleep together without protection. You confessed that he was currently the only person you were seeing, and he also admitted that he wasnβt sleeping with anyone else as well.Β
As the months went on, Bradley began getting more affectionate with you, especially in public and in front of the other guys. While you were sure you were falling for him, he had also been acting as if he was more than just a friend with benefits.Β
He offered you to sleep over every time you found yourself underneath him well into the night, and he woke you up each day with a good morning kiss and smile.
He lets you wear his clothes, use the appliances in his kitchen and even asks you to stay for dinner most nights.Β
All in all, he was the perfect boyfriend, but he wasnβt your boyfriend. He just acted like it.Β
There was a bit of an age difference, with you being twenty five and him pushing thirty five. While he had never explicitly said it bothered him, and he sure as hell never acted like he had a problem with it, you assumed that was why he had yet to make it official with you.Β
You werenβt reading too much into this, right? You couldnβt be.Β
He was all over you when you were around, and texted you constantly when you were away from him. He wanted you to feel comfortable wearing his clothes, didnβt care if you ate the leftovers he was saving, and had told you on more than one occasion to start keeping some of your things at his house.Β
And you had started to, kind of.Β
Your phone charger was plugged in next to his, a few of your shirts and jeans were currently in the washing machine along with his own, and your beloved hoodie you got from your uni days had a seemingly permanent place on the left side of his bed.
There was no way you had been given the wrong impression, right?
Right?
As soon as you entered the crowded bar, your face makeup free and one of his old vintage shirts tucked into your jean shorts, Bradley was pulling you with him to where Nat stood next to the pool table. βHey, Rooster,β she greeted as she handed him a cue, nodding in your direction. βRoosterβs girlfriend.β
You expected him to correct her, but he surprised you by just shaking his head and laughing quietly, pulling you closer to his side. Your face heated up as you met Jakeβs eyes from across the room, and he smiled as he waved you over to where he was sitting at the bar.Β
βHey, Iβll be back in a sec,β you tell Bradley, and he leans down so he could hear you better in the loud bar. βIβm going to go get a drink, you want one?β
βJust one,β he answered before placing a kiss on your lips. βHurry back so you can watch me kick Natβs ass.β
Nat slapped his arm as you walked away, a dumb grin on your lips as you made your way to the bar. Jake welcomed you over with an arm around your shoulders and a kiss to your cheek.Β
βHey, Jake,β you say as you rest your hand on his chest.Β
βHey, sweetheart,β he answered, eyeing something behind you with a sly smirk. βDonβt look now, but your guy friend is glaring at me as if youβre his girlfriend or something.βΒ
Despite his words, you turn and look at Bradley anyway. His brown eyes were on the two of you, furrowed and clouded over with what you think is jealousy. You held back a forming grin, your face heating up at the fact that he was getting jealous at the sight of you with another guy. Maybe it made you seem selfish, but you loved that he didnβt want you to be around other guys in the way you are currently with Jake.Β
βHe does realize that Iβm the one who introduced him to you, right?β The blond asks and you just shake your head, leaning over the bar and ordering two beers. βYouβre not official, right?β
You clench your jaw at the reminder and shake your head, βNo,β
Jake takes a swig of beer as he runs his hand up and down your back in a friendly kind of gesture. βThen I donβt understand why heβs coming over here right now,β
At that, you turn just in time to see Bradley step into your space, his hand on your arm as he tugged you away from Jake. βHands to yourself, Hangman,β he says coldly, eyeing the other man with a suspicious glance. βWe both know Iβm the one whoβs taking her home after this.βΒ
His words dripped with a sense of possessiveness, and the whole thing had a surge of lust flow through your body. βMy intentions are pure, Rooster,β Jake winked at the two of you as Bradley pulled you into his side. βYou donβt need to worry about me.βΒ
βIs that right?β Bradley questioned but didnβt really care for the answer.Β
βRelax, Bradley,β you murmur, handing him one of the beers. He didnβt take his eyes off Jake as he blindly took it from you, the cool bottle a nice contrast against his heated skin. βI came here with you, remember? That means Iβm leaving with you, too.β
That had him meeting your eyes with a proud smirk on his lips, seemingly satisfied with your words. He gives Jake an over exaggerated shrug before pulling you along with him. βLater, Hangman,β
He tugged you over to the pool table once again, his hand sliding from your arm to your hip, where he squeezed slightly. You settle against his side, this position feeling more like where you were supposed to be than just an embrace.Β
Staying true to his word, Bradley took you back home a few hours later, and you spent the rest of the night wrapped around him in more ways than one, and giving in to his quiet plead of, βStay with me tonight,β
It was the fifth night in a row heβs asked you to do that, and the fifth time youβve said yes without hesitation.Β
-
The next morning, Bradley woke you up by going down on you until he had you coming twice. He didnβt ask you to return the favor, simply muttering something about βNeeding his fix to start the day,βΒ
You help him pack any last minute things, before driving him to the dock in your car. This would be his second deployment since this whole ordeal started, and this time you were completely in love with him. You werenβt sure how you would cope with not seeing him for six weeks, and you wanted him to know that youβd be thinking about him the whole time he was gone.Β
As you stood with him on the dock, you gazed up into his brown eyes with a sense of longing. βThanks for coming with me this time,β he spoke quietly, making you grin up at him.Β
The first deployment was just two weeks into your situationship, and since you werenβt really all too familiar with everything that made up the marvel of a man named Bradley Bradshaw, you stayed home and sent him a simple text that wished him luck.Β Β
βOf course,β you reply, inching closer to him when his hands found home on your waist. Your eyes trailed over the scars on his cheek, and you refrained from reaching out to trace them with your finger. βIβm going to be thinking about you every single day, you know.β
This was it.
Bradley smiled down at you, leaning in and running his nose along the edge of your jaw. βYou will?β He hummed, pressing various kisses to the marks he had left on your neck the night prior. When you nodded, he pulled back and took your chin between his thumb and index finger, guiding your lips to his in a lingering kiss. βI bet I know what part of me youβll miss most.β
He was teasing you, but you were about to put your heart in the palm of his hand. βIβll miss all of you,βΒ
Bradley grinned and took you into his arms in a tight embrace. βIβll miss you, too,β
From his hunched over position, your mouth was right next to his ear, meaning he was at the perfect height for you to whisper, βI think Iβm falling for you,βΒ
There it was.
You had given him your heart. It was his to take, and you supposed it was also his to break, as it was like a switch flipped inside him.
His body tensed against yours, and you immediately regret ever opening your mouth. Before you could take your words back, Bradley pulls away and keeps his hands on your waist as he mutters, βWhat?β
You felt your eyes burn instantly, your lower lip threatening to quiver as you stared up at him. βI..β You werenβt sure what to say. You had clearly mistaken your role in his life, and you wished you had never said anything. You had completely fucked things up. But there was no going back now. βIβm falling for you, Bradley.βΒ
His eyes flicker between yours before he stands back up to his full height. βThatβs what I thought you said,β he muttered under his breath. You feel your heart fall as he steps away from you, his arms dropping back to his sides. βFuck, I wish you didnβt tell me that.β
You quickly begin building walls up around your heart as you stand your ground, swallowing harshly as you ask, βWhy not?βΒ
Bradleyβs eyes turn cold as he answers you, βBecause that wasnβt what this was supposed to be,β
It was as if that was the most obvious answer in the world.Β
You shake your head and wrap your arms around yourself, glancing around at the many people who were sending their loved ones off with sad smiles and hugs. βIβm sorry. I canβt help how I feel, Bradley,β you say quietly and he just scoffs.Β
βWe were just having fun, Y/n,β he says and grabs his bag that he had set down on the dock when you arrived. He slings it over his shoulder and places his aviators over his eyes. βThatβs all this was. Youβre ten years younger than me, what did you think was going to happen here? Weβre in two different places in our lives, and I thought that was obvious.β
You break eye contact as the first of many tears begin to fall. βIt wasnβt,β was all you managed to say before he was sighing heavily and backing away from you.Β
βIf thatβs the case, sorry for leading you on,β he said as he turned and began walking up the ramp. He had only walked about four steps before he stopped with a heavy sigh. He turned to glance back at you, seeing that you hadnβt moved from your spot, and you hadnβt taken your eyes off the wooden dock below you. βLook, I donβt want to leave it like this, but I need to go. Iβll call you if I can, okay? Weβll talk more about it when I come back.β
You just nod, not bothering to lift your head and meet his eyes.
Without another word being shared between the two of you, Bradley steps onto the carrier deck and waits to be shipped off. Though he knows he shouldnβt, he glances up at the dock and his heart falls at what he saw.Β
You were still where he left you, but that was when he finally caught sight of the tears that were steadily rolling down your face. You did a pretty good job at hiding them when he was right next to you, but now that he was far away, you had lifted your head and he was given a clear view of your pretty face as you cried.Β
He realized then that he had royally fucked up, and he needed to make things right before he left for a month and a half.Β
Bradley watched as an elderly woman gently placed her hand on your arm, surely thinking that you were crying because you were sad about having to say goodbye to your loved one, when in reality he had just broken your heart.Β
As you began making your way through the crowd and towards your car, he cursed under his breath and fumbled around in his bag for his phone, regret filling his body as he clicked on your contact.Β
He watched as you stopped walking through the crowd and pulled out your phone, and to his surprise, you actually answered. βWhat?β You sounded so sad, and it only made him further regret the words he said to you.
It wasnβt even the truth, and he hoped you would give him the chance to explain that to you. He needed to be quick, though, because he knew he would quickly lose service once the carrier started moving. βBaby, Iβm sorry,β he rasped out, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the way you turned to look over at him. He tried to meet your eyes as he continued, βIβm sorry, okay? Letβs talk about this now.β
You furrow your brows and shake your head. βThereβs nothing to talk about, Bradley,β
βYes, there is,β he insisted, feeling his heart drop once the carrier started to pull away from the dock.Β
βThereβs not,β you muttered. βI mistook my place, disrespected your boundaries and thatβs on me. Completely my fault.β
βNo, thatβs- no,β he begged but he knew he didnβt have enough time to get through to you. βPlease, just, wait for me. Iβll call you as soon as I can, weβll talk and-β
βAnd what, Bradley?β You cut him off. βYou said it yourself; Iβm too young for you. Too immature. Itβs best if we just end this now so we can both stop wasting our time.β
βYouβre not a waste of time,β he said quickly, watching as your form slowly began to disappear the further he drifted away from you. βIβve loved every second Iβve spent with you, and I think Iβm-βΒ
Before he could also give you his heart, you had broken it with a simple sentence, βYouβre cutting out,β and you were, too, but somehow your last few words were crystal clear. βI know where we stand now. Goodbye, Bradley.β
And then you hung up. And he was left to drop his hand back down to his side in defeat as he silently prayed he was able to call you within the next few days.Β
-
A whopping six hours had passed since Bradley had been shipped off when he found himself missing you.Β
His arms ached to be wrapped around you, his lips missed the taste of yours, and his heart longed with a sense of need to know that you would still be his once he returned home.Β
His.
Bradley had to laugh.Β
You werenβt his.
He hadnβt managed to step up and ask you to take things to the next level yet before he was ruining everything. He hadnβt given a possible real relationship with you a chance.
God, he was so mean, belittling you as if you deserved to be treated with anything other than respect and kindness. He acted like a proper asshole, and he deserved to feel all the things he felt right now.Β
Shame. Guilt. Regret. Anger. He felt all of it all at once, and he hated himself for hurting you.
Had he known the sad sight of you crying because of him was all he needed to get his act straight, he wouldβve told you he loved you when you confessed to falling for him back on the dock.Β
Bradley loves you. Why did it take losing you for him to realize that?
A couple weeks passed before he was allowed the opportunity to call you, and as he put your number in, he found himself praying to anyone that may have been listening that you would answer.Β
He felt a little more than deflated when it rang five times before he was sent to your voicemail. He listened to your sweet voice ask him to leave you a message, and he did, but he also knew you wouldnβt be able to call him back once you listened to the message.
If you listened to it at all.
βHey, sweet girl. Iβ¦ God, I wish you picked up, but I understand why you didnβt. A few weeks agoβ¦fuck, I was so out of line, baby, and Iβm sorry for that. I didnβt mean what I said. I didnβt mean any of it, Iβm just a fucking idiot when it comes to this kind of thing and I threw all my issues on you, and you didnβt deserve that,β Bradley waited a beat or two before he continued, βIβm so sorry. I miss you, and I know I have no right to ask this of you, but I hope I can see you on the day I get back to San Diego. I only have just under a month to go, and I canβt wait to see you and talk about this in person, if youβll let me.β
He felt pathetic, leaving you a sappy message you couldnβt even reply to.Β
βIβm sorry, again, and I hope things have been going well for you,β he ended the message after that, reluctantly hanging up and returning back to his bunk, where he threw himself down on the bed that felt too empty without you by his side.Β
-
It went on like that for weeks.Β
Bradley would go to sleep, wake up, complete whatever he needed to do for the day, then do it all over again, all while thinking about you.Β
He was counting down the days until he was able to return home and back to you, but he wasnβt sure he even had the right to seek you out once he was off the carrier.Β
He had called you again a few days ago, and you had once again given him your voicemail. Two calls in, and it was silent on your end. He missed you terribly, missed your flowery scent, your kind smiles, your voice, and the feeling of your body tucked against his.Β
Yeah, he missed the sex, but he missed you more. All of you.Β
You were so close to being his. You had put your heart on your sleeve, completely his for the taking, and he rejected you. Like a fucking idiot.Β
He knew he would get an earful from Nat once he got back, and he was honestly looking forward to it. He knew he deserved it, and he couldnβt think of a better person to call him out on his bullshit than his best friend.Β
Another week flew by after he successfully completed his mission, and he was a few quick hours away from the same dock he had left you on a month and a half ago.Β
While he didnβt expect you to be there to greet him once he stepped off the carrier, he still felt his heart break a bit as he finally let it all sink in. A few feet from where he stood now, he had broken your heart.
He dropped his bag onto the dock below him as he pulled his phone out and called you, once again disappointed when he was sent to your voicemail. Before he could stop himself, he left you a message, βHey, itβs me. Iβm back home now, and I still really want to see you. I want to try to explain myself and why I said the things I did. Iβm still so sorry, Y/n/n, really, I am,β he ended it after that, and used the last bit of battery he had left to call Nat in hopes she would come and pick him up.Β
Like he expected, Nat did end up chewing him out during the entire ride home, and even in his own driveway. Bradley just sat there and took it, knowing he deserved every harsh dig that was thrown at him and more.Β
When she angrily reached over and hugged him in the car, she promptly told him to get out and that she would see him later at the Hard Deck.Β
Bradley unlocked the front door and stepped into his house, the silence being the last thing he wanted to be met with. You were in your twenties, you were young and loud and cheerful, he had gotten so used to how chaotic his life had become since you entered it. It was chaotic in the best way, and he missed the loud laughs you would emit as he carried you down the hall to his room, or when the two of you would skip out on beers with your friends to watch a comedy in his living room instead.Β
He sulked his way to his room, and his heart deflated even more at the sight he was met with. Nat had gone on about how she had to use the key Bradley gave her to let you into his house while he was away, and how she was confused about that until now.Β
Gone was your phone charger and old movies you kept by the TV he had on his dresser, and he was sure your clothes in his laundry room were picked up as well. The left side of his bed was bare of your uni hoodie, a thing he had a strong amount of fondness for.
Coming home to a quiet house was one thing, but walking into a bedroom that lacked any personality at all was something else. The small things you kept in there made it appear more lived in, more cared for than he had ever tried to make it look, and he once again was reminded just how much he had fucked up.
You made him happy, were the reason he looked forward to the end of his days because it would likely mean he would end them with you, like he had been for the good part of the last six months.
Bradley let out a frustrated sigh as he threw his bag onto the bed. He plugged his phone in before heading into the bathroom, his eyes glancing at the spotless counter. A few of your face washes and creams had taken up space next to the sink the last time he was in here, but now they were gone too.Β
He quickly realized how much he loved having your things at his house. God, did he miss you.Β
After the quickest shower of his life, Bradley got dressed in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt and unplugged his phone. It had only been charged up to thirty four percent, but he didnβt plan on going on the device too much once he arrived at the Hard Deck.
He grabbed his keys and wallet before he started up his beloved Bronco, typing out a quick text to you in hopes youβd actually answer him this time.
Youβre ignoring me and thatβs fine, but I hope Iβll be able to see you at the Hard Deck tonight? If not, maybe we can meet up later and I can explain everything to you. Please. I donβt want it to end like this.
He didnβt want it to end at all, but especially not with you thinking you werenβt all he could ever want.Β
To his surprise, you had actually gotten back to him pretty fast, and your response had him quickly backing out of his driveway and speeding down the road towards the Hard Deck.Β
Y/n/n: Seems as though luck is on your side today. Glad youβre back home and safe. I guess Iβll see you tonight.
i always loved how beautifully painful this fic was framed, and then, completely unintentionally and unbeknownst to me until it was too late, I experienced its premise first-hand.
trust, it is HELL out here.
and now it's like it's tailor-made. still a great read.
summary: you and Tangerine haven't spoken in almost a year. now you've been ditched, and he's picking you up.
pairing: tangerine x reader
word count: 1.9k
warnings/tags: a tense ass car ride. swearing, tension, arguing, excessive rudeness, pining
masterlist
a/n: this was not the fic i intended to write or finish or upload:)))Β but here it is
Heβll be up. He owes you one, anyway. And itβs not like he sleeps.Β
Plus, itβs you.
You did think it would take him longer to get here, though. Itβs not like he lives nearby. Hasnβt even been ten minutes since the three dots popped up on your screen, followed immediately by the βomwβ that your eyes have been glued to ever since.Β
You should have just walked home. Bit the bullet, and walked the hour and a half trek back to yours. But itβs getting dark, youβve barely slept, and your ankles are already starting to ache, just from the five minute walk down the block and back again.
He doesnβt get out when he pulls up; doesnβt even roll down the window or turn his head to look in your direction. Just leans back, one hand on the wheel, one elbow resting against the car window. The chain hanging off his wrist gleams in the light of a streetlight a couple of metres away. Itβs one of the only things you can focus your eyes on as you stalk towards the car.
The slam of the car door rings in the night. The car is dead silent; no radio on, no phone call over bluetooth, no nothing. Itβs never been this quiet.
The engine purrs gently. Itβs strange. Heβs sat right next to you, but he might as well be on the other side of the world. He hasnβt even asked for your address.
βThe fuck you doinβ out here?β
His voice sounds strange. Maybe itβs the silence. Makes it sound almost distorted. Maybe itβs βcause you havenβt heard his actual voice in months. Maybe you forgot what it sounds like. Maybe itβs the hint of concern in his voice.Β
No - that canβt be right. This is the same guy who told you to βwalk it offβ when you got your femur shattered by some dickhead with a golf club.Β
βJust some guy,β you mumble. If there was one place you didnβt want to get ditched, it was here. Your phoneβs nearly dead, and you donβt really know your way back to the main road. But he canβt possibly know that. Right? All you sent him was your location.
βBoyfriend?β
βWhatβs it to you?β
βJesus, darlinβ, no need to bite my head off.β
Maybe youβve come in a bit too amped. Nevermind the fact that the last time you saw him, he blew your cover to help his own; heβs come to pick you up out in the middle of nowhere at eleven p.m., no complaints, and heβs not said anything out of order yet. Youβve come to think Tanβs the type of guy you gotta judge on an encounter by encounter basis. Maybe you shouldnβt, but it makes it easier.
βNot anymore, I guess.β
He grunts - thereβs no other word for it - and brings a hand up to smooth down his moustache.
βForgive me, darlinβ, but you donβt sound very upset.β
βYeah, well, Iβm not exactly flowing over with love for the guy.β
βYou really know how to fuckinβ pick βem, donβt ya,β he mutters. You glare.Β
Youβd think after having known him for - what, six, seven years? - youβd be used to his bite by now. Maybe itβs just tonight. Youβre in a weird mood. If he calls you sensitive, you might actually start to cry.
βProbably better off then, ainβt ya, if heβs left ya to hang about outside by yourself anβ all.β
He must have clocked that youβre a bit off tonight. It comes out as an afterthought, barely audible above the soft purr of the engine.
βWhat you goinβ out with a prick like that for, anyway?β
βSβnot like anyone else wants me.β
Everything gets heavy, then. In your peripheral vision, you try not to notice the way his knuckles tighten around the wheel, or the way his jaw tenses just the slightest bit. He doesnβt respond. You didnβt think he would. Youβre in a torturing mood. Just want to poke and prod at the wound for a bit and see what happens. Because he says you know how to pick βem, but wonβt let you pick him. Even if you both know he wants to be picked.
After about ten minutes of ear deafening silence, he clears his throat quietly.Β
βStill workinβ down the bank?β
You hum, non-committedly. You canβt tell if youβre happy or sad that heβs stopped pushing for more on this other guy. Odds are, heβd be in the papers tomorrow for all the wrong reasons. Youβve got goosebumps from the cold. They itch a bit. Maybe waiting outside wasnβt the best idea, but itβs better than hanging around inside like some loner. Maybe you were just eager to see him.
You see him less now that youβve gone civilian. Five bullet wounds and a back injury will do that to a person. Itβs been around seven months since you last had anything to do with him. Seven months since you quit. The last message from him on your phone is from nine months ago. It says, βgive me back my tie.β You didnβt respond.Β
More than anything, youβre tired. And bored.
You never told him you worked at a bank.
βMight get back into liquidation. Lemon says he knows a guy.β
Itβs a lie. You donβt want to get back in, and Lemon wouldnβt help you even if you did. Doesnβt mean you donβt hate your life the way it is right now.
βNah, you wouldnβt survive out there, darlinβ,β he mutters, little finger flicking up to switch on the indicators. βTimes have changed. Good thing like you? Theyβd tear ya apart, I mean, look at ya.β
You canβt tell if he means it. Canβt tell if it means something. It hurts more than you think it does. Itβs also kinda backhanded, even if it is a lie.
Flecks of rain have begun to spatter the windshield, their outlines illuminated by each passing streetlight. Youβre seething. The type of thing where you can literally smell it off someone. You want him to mean it. But he probably doesnβt. And even if he does, heβs not gonna do anything about it.
βDβyou even know where youβre going? You donβt have an address.β
βYou think I donβt know where you live? Give me some credit.β
You never gave him your address.
βIβm not going to mine.β
He frowns, then, lips twitching like he wants to say something, like heβs getting ready to speak but hasnβt decided on the words yet. You can almost hear the sound of him blinking, like a cartoon. He looks kinda funny when heβs frustrated, like a muppet with a big, bushy moustache.
The hand comes out to gesture a βwhat the fuckβ before he even speaks, almost in slow motion, like the thought is loading.
βWell, why the fuck didnβt you say somethinβ before I-β
βYou didnβt fuckinβ ask, mate,β you groan, βLiterally didnβt even fuckinβ say anything until-β
βHow the fuck am I supposed to know where the fuck-β
βI didnβt ask you to know, I was gonna fuckinβ tell you.β
βTakinβ your sweet fuckinβ time, ainβt ya!β
βWould you relax, itβs not like youβve gone the wrong way, I would have-β
βYou know,β he cuts in, pointing his index finger accusatorily at you, βyouβre a lot easier to deal with when you shut the fuck up.β
You shove his hand away. Heβs not making sense.
βFuck you.β
Green becomes amber becomes red light, shining through the watery sheen of the windshield and hitting his skin like a coloured lens. Without the grumble of the engine, you can almost hear him breathe. It grounds you. Reminds you heβs a real human being. Sometimes heβs such a caricature that you forget.Β
When he speaks next, his voice is uncharacteristically light, and void of aggression.
βThinkinβ of gettinβ a new suit.β
Itβs so dumb. Itβs so. dumb. And no one cares. But itβs his attempt at normalcy, and itβs a hell of an olive branch, even if it does give you whiplash. You donβt even know what to say to that. What are you supposed to say to that?Β
Go get one, then. You donβt want to pick another fight. Youβve already got steam coming out of your ears from the last one. But itβs not like heβs broke, or doesnβt know where to get one. Heβs trying, heβs really trying to make conversation, so you voice - quietly - the only thought that comes to mind.
βI like your blue one. Not theβ¦ the dark blue one.β
βNot the dark blue one?β
βNo, I mean, the dark blue one.β
And then, completely out of character, in a moment of absolute weakness;
βIβm going to Italy next week for a conference. Maybe you couldβ¦ come with? Maybe get somethingβ¦β
βYeah, well, I ainβt got the time for that, do I.β
Shot down.
βFine. Forget I said anything.β
He inhales deeply, like heβs either about to explode or implode. To your relief, he exhales slowly, a hand coming up to scratch at his stubble.
βWhere you goinβ, anyway?β
βA friendβs,β you mutter, pulling at the hems of your sleeves.
βYeah, but whereβd they live? I gotta drop you somewhere, right?β
βJustβ¦ The Square is fine.β
βNo chance. Are you fuckinβ dense?β
βJesus Christ, fine,β you huff, grabbing his phone from the cup holder so you can plug in the address. But itβs fucking locked. You donβt know why you thought it wouldnβt be. You click the power button a couple of times before shoving it into his lap. βUnlock it, then. Jesus.β
He mutters something you canβt hear, and tosses it back in your general direction. It almost ricochets off the arm rest.Β
The audio assistant on google maps pipes up every thirty seconds. Other than that, itβs quiet. Heβs always so unnecessarily tense. It gets to you. All you do is argue. But itβs not like you hate each other. Is it? If he did, he wouldnβt have come to pick you up. If you did, you wouldnβt have asked him.
The car slows to a halt. He lets out a long, loud sigh, and drums his fingers against the wheel. Then he stops, and turns to look at you for the first time since you got in.Β
βFor what itβs worth, I really am sorry, darlinβ.β
βThanks for the lift.β
Youβve dipped before he can get another word out. It smells like rain on tarmac, like sweat and humidity, like headache and sleep. Just before you slam the door shut, he leans over the passenger seat.Β
βWait, wait.β
You jerk forward and pull the door back open mid-swing. You glare.Β
βWhat.β
βIf you ever need somewhere to go, Iβve, uhβ¦ Iβve got a nice flat. Just upβ¦β
You almost want to let yourself fall for it. Just for fun. His eyes are so serious it almost makes you laugh. Youβve never known him to be serious about anything. But you canβt stop the belittling scoff that leaves your lips before itβs too late.
You miss the way his eyes stay on you as you head up the steps and hit the buzzer. He stays parked outside for a good while after youβve got in.Β
summary: It's 1985. The English countryside swells with the day's remains of midsummer heat as you make your way towards the gate, longs strands of grass nipping at your calves.
It's a good time to get away. Old and distant family friends have taken you in against your wildest imagination, following torturous personal circumstances and a recent mental breakdown. Here, where you can live with purpose among people who care about you, you can slowly begin to rest and recover in the secluded privacy of the Burrow.
Now would be a really bad time for you to run into the most traumatic ex-fling of your life, wouldn't it?
pairing: remus lupin x reader
genre: non-magic!AU; farmhand remus!AU
word count: 4k
warnings/tags: blood, injury, mental breakdown, mental health issues (mostly anxiety and depression), shitty parents, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, swearing, mentions of violence, orphanhood, smut (eventually), a lot of self-deprecation, tension, pining, arguing, etc.
author's note: minors DNI! please read the warnings. this series is taking all i have to write, and a lot of it is just me projecting. i hope it resonates with at least some of you.
chapter index
masterlist
chapter one | arrival
The nightβs a dewy one; wet and almost,Β almostΒ , cold, with a fog that hangs heavy around your head.
βY/N.Β SoΒ good to see you, love.β
She means well. The sincerity in her eyes and the warmth in her smile tells you as much. But thereβs something in her voice that sounds aΒ littleΒ too much like pity. Her clammy palm cups your cheek, adding to the itchy layer of grime that seems to coat every inch of your skin.Β
Still, you smile.Β
βMolly.β
She shoves a cup into your hands. Sheβs gone before you have a chance to thank her.Β
Canβt stand this English Breakfast shit.
Placing the cup on the mantle, you wrap an arm around the waist of each twin in the armchair and lift them up before settling in yourself.Β
Every joint in your body aches. Your wrists feel weak, like half the blood has drained from your body. The headache thatβs been brewing since you got on the train this morning threatens to spark up again, pounding dully against your skull like a speaker pumping underwater.Β
Itβs just the travel. Travel, and inhaling shit air, and eating shit food, and being all cramped up. Youβre not even sure you ate. Hard to tell when each day bleeds into the next and time goes by a million miles an hour and not at all.Β
Small feet and hands dig into the flesh of your thighs and stomach. The twins settle either side of your waist, gurgling and babbling to themselves. You sit in silence, staring at a patch of carpet, restless nails picking at frayed threads on the tattered armrest. Someone enters the room, voices speak, but it all sounds muffled. It isnβt until Molly pushes a saucer of biscuits under your nose that you come to, blinking heavily and mumbling disjointedly.
βThank you.β
Molly glances at the clock on the wall. Itβs got nine hands, one for Molly, one for Arthur, and one for each of the children. Does she keep a stack of them in a drawer somewhere, to add one on whenever a new one comes along?
βItβs getting late,β she mutters.Β
Is it?
The thought that you might be keeping them up gnaws at you. Youβre about to offer to retire for the evening, to apologise and head off, when Arthur stands. He hums, brows furrowed as though in deep thought, and shuffles into the hallway. As the air grows heavy with silence, your gaze rests back on Molly.Β
βYou know, I might justβ¦β
The words die on your lips. They must have barely been audible, anyway, judging by Mollyβs lack of reaction.
The odd child meanders into the room as you wait for Arthur to return. Billβs at that age where you pretend youβre an adult, unsurprised and unscared. He barely spares you a second glance as he steps over to his mother, asking for the whereabouts of his book onΒ Britainβs Most Dangerous Deepwater Sea-Creatures.Β
Charlieβs not quite there yet, lingering in the hallway and peeking around the doorframe with wide eyes and a long, floppy, pink tongue. Itβs the toy in his hands that catches your eye, a bright green dragon with blue spikes and huge eyes. He holds it around its neck so tight it might just pop off.Β
You beckon him over. His eyes dart to his mother, then back to you, then back to his mother. Then he steels himself and tiptoes towards you.
βY/N.β
He blinks. He looks like heβs going to chicken out and back away.Β
You pull your hand away from the mouth of a teething George, wiping his saliva off on your sleeve and reaching behind your head. Lifting one of the many pendants from around your neck, you slip the chain onto your finger and hold it out to the seven year old in front of you.
βItβs yours, if you want it,β you say softly.
He eyes it timidly, looking up at you, then down at the pendant, then up at you, then back down at the pendant. The pendantβs a photo coin you bought at a museum gift shop when you were young; itβs got a celtic dragon pressed into its centre and waves decorating the rim.
βTake it,β you whisper.Β
He smiles shyly, before snatching the chain with clumsy hands and shuffling away, not taking his eyes off of it for a second. The movement excites the twins, who squeal, and giggle, and squirm in your arms. One of them accidentally slaps you in the face. The other tries to shove their hand in your face, getting their hand stuck in your necklaces.Β
βCome here,β you sigh, taking the soft, small, pudgy hand in yours to ease it out of the knot of chains.Β
Four heavy knocks pound somewhere in the distance.Β
The chains have gotten caught up in your hair, now. The child tugs, and you lurch, dangerously close to getting your fingers tangled up in the mess.Β
A door slams in the distance. The bairn pulls his hand back, threatening to take a chunk of your scalp out with it. You grab hold of his hand again, murmuring for him to keep still, to relax, toΒ stop pulling-
Then, from the doorway, with a kind lilt and a Yorkshire accent that makes your blood run cold as ice, comes a soft, deep voice, and surely you must be ill. Surely, you must have caught some fatal, delayed-onset disease, because the fever that burns at your skin, rippling in waves and numbing your wrists, is anything short of natural.
It hurts. It actuallyΒ hurts.Β
βWhereβd you like βem, Molly?β
You might pass out. Jesus, you can hear your heartbeat squelching in your ears. You can vaguely hear Molly fussing about the time andΒ we were beginning to think you werenβt coming back tonightΒ and-Β
Back?Β
Soft, small hands slap at your wrists when they notice your attention has drifted.Β
What does she mean,Β back?Β
Youβre still trying to untangle the knot in your hair, fingertips trying and failing to set you free. You can just about see the lower half of him where you sit, hunched over, with toddler spit trailing down your forearm and a fist in your hair. You can see the way his shirt sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows; see the sprigs of some kind of plant poking out from the handles of one of the plastic bags in his hands.Β
Heβs grown. Lived. Thrived, even, by the looks of things.Β
Itβs the smallest thing, but it fucks with your head.Β YouΒ havenβt grown, or lived, or thrived at all. Youβre small. Ratty. Shrivelled, even, by the looks of things.Β
As you finally detangle the childβs fingers from your hair, you get a proper look at him. He looks like he has friends. But not like he has to make any effort to keep them. Not even that; like itβs effortless for him to keep them. Like heβs got that kind of quiet magnetism. He looks like the type of guy someone else randomly brings to a night out and every friend of a friend tries to chat him up. Like he barely needs to say a word, but everyone still knows who he is and greets him when they see him.
What must he see when he looks at you?Β
You feel sick.
You can see the exact moment he sees you because he frowns and cocks his head to the side. He says nothing as Mollyβs fusses, eyes fixed on you with his lips barely parted, head half-turned to the side like it wants to tear away but canβt seem to force itself.
Youβve been sat by the fire too long; your face burns from it. Why theyβve lit a fire in mid-june is beyond you.Β
βNow,β Molly says, waving you over, βArthurβs set everything up for you, dear, though Iβve got to warn you, itβs no luxury hotel. That roomβs barely been touched since there were farmers here, and thatβs about fifty years ago, nowβ¦β
When did Arthur come back in?
βAnd Gideon told you about the plumbing, and the-β
βYes,β you interject, heart beating in your throat, now, βYes, thank you. Really, Molly, thank you so much. For everything.β
She carries on, turning to Remus. You feel lightheaded; so lightheaded, and itβs been such a long day and youβreΒ exhausted, and sheβs asked you something now, sheβs actually asked you something and you can see her lips moving but you canβt hear a thing.Β
βSorry,β you say suddenly. βIβm just- Iβm very tired. Could I maybeβ¦?β
Is your voice really loud?
βOf course, dear,β Molly says, prying Arthurβs cup out of his hands. βYou must be exhausted, all that travel. Here, Remusβll walk you down, heβs staying in the other room. Itβs no more than fifteen, twenty minutes down the road - will you manage?β
βYes, I-,β you say, βthatβs fine.β
βYouβre more than welcome to stay here for the night if you like,β Arthur offers, insistently. βI wouldnβt want you walking down to that old shack at this hour of the night, why donβt-β
βSheβs a grown woman, dear,β Molly fusses, reaching over to take Remusβ cup.Β
Whenβd she find time to give him that?
They shoo the boys out and suddenly, in a heartbeat, the room is almost completely empty.Β
Time slows way down, with a force that leaves your stomach surging like youβre on a plane taking a dive. This is the split second where Remusβ nonchalant facade breaks, when he first gets a good, up-close look at your face. Where he gets this look, this far-out and distanced look in his eyes, but you canβt make out what it is. And then it flashes before your eyes, dark and pained and sharp and twisted and itβs like youβve both tapped into the same frequency for the millisecond it takes for the memory to flicker in front of your mindβs eye.Β
Can he see the way your eyes gloss over?
βRemus, dear,β Mollyβs voice tuts from behind him, βWould you mind? Youβre just in the way, love.β
He doesnβt answer, eyes - not wide in surprise like yours, but narrowed; narrowed, unblinking, and concentrated. It fills your stomach with dread. Anything neutral in his surprise has melted away now that heβs had a moment to think and recollect. His forearms flex as he shifts the plastic bag in his hands to readjust the weight, head almost entirely cocked to the side as he stares at you, brows furrowed in something nearing anger and lips parted ever so slightly, like he might want to think about saying something but canβt quite decide what to say.
Surely they must have told him youβd be here?
βRemus?β
He almost jumps then, blinking and tearing his gaze away from you.
ββcourse, Molly.β
His voice echoes in the room after he turns to let her through.
βHere,β Molly says, pulling the bag from your hands before you have a chance to hold on, βRemusβll take that.β
Remus lets out what you can only describe as an affirmative grunt,Β just aboutΒ polite enough for it not to be rude in front of Molly, grabbing your duffel by the strap and swinging it onto his shoulder. Heβs gone out the door before you can say another word.Β
You press a forced smile onto your lips and move to follow.
βWhat time will you be back tomorrow, dear?β
Mollyβs unassuming tone chips away at you for reasons you canβt explain.Β
βNot too late, Molly,β you mumble, tearing your eyes away from his back, flashing her what you hope looks like a tired but genuine smile and heading for the door, βNot too late.β
The old farmhouse down the lane from the Burrow is surrounded by overgrown weeds and old rubber tires. Some of the tires are as wide as you are tall, stacked on top of each other with tufts of green and yellow poking through the gaps in the threads.
The walk itself is less than quiet. He stalks in front of you, never closer than about six feet. Doesnβt even look back to check if youβre in tow. Though to be fair, besides actively diving into the brambles and brush that outline the lane, thereβs not really anywhere you could go.
Bare wooden planks cover the floors, worn down from decades of use. Thereβs a simple, wood-burning stove in the corner of the front room, surrounded by stone walls. There are two doors on the back wall, one on the right, and one on the left. Two doors, two bedrooms.Β
Two tenantsΒ , you remind yourself.Β
This is where you live, now. On Gideonβs request, Molly and Arthur have been generous enough to let you stay here free of charge. Itβs hard to pay rent when you canβt work. No oneβs supposed to know youβre here, either, outside the Prewett-Weasleys.
And Remus Lupin, apparently.Β
What the fuck is he doing here? Youβve not heard a word from or about him inΒ years, literalΒ years, and up he pops, like a jack-in-the-box. Itβs knocked you for six; you drag your bag across the wooden floor into the room heΒ didnβtΒ stalk into and and sit down on the mattress, and then you justβ¦Β sitΒ there, staring out into the darkness until your eyes grow used to it and you can begin to see the outline of the handles on the dresser drawers on the opposite side of the room.Β
Donβt even know how long it takes you to move, strip, and shuffle under the covers, but by the time you do, your joints are stiff and sore and the first signs of daybreak have begun to push through the thinly woven fabric of the curtains.
Remus must be long gone by the time you wake. Itβs unsurprising; judging by how bright the sun is, youβre guessing youβve slept in. You have a vague memory of almost waking a few hours ago and hearing the sound of rushing water outside. Gideon had mentioned that there wasnβt any indoor plumbing, but the way your nightclothes stick to your skin makes the thought of dousing yourself in a bucket of cold water outside a heavenly fantasy come to life.Β
Thereβs no way to get lost on your way back to the Burrow; the farmhouse is at the end of a dead end, so your feet move on auto pilot.Β
Thereβs shouting in the halls as you step through the open back door, echoing up the stairwells. Moving through the kitchen in shoes you probably should take off, you stick your head through the doorway and almost trip over the two tiny streaks of ginger that run into you as they head around the corner. They land on their bottoms and freeze to a halt with big, brown eyes that peer up at you and just look up, and up, and up until they reach your face.Β
You tower over them, a ghastly vision with matted hair and sunken eyes, skin gaunt and discoloured. Moments tick by before you bend down to reach both hands out, one in the direction of either bairn. They blink.
You wiggle your fingers when the bairns donβt move, and something clicks behind their eyes as they heave themselves onto their feet and reach for your hands. Each twin grips two of your fingers tightly as you lead them down the hall, stooped low as they waddle along the tattered carpet in their nappies. You lead the boys through the doorway first, shuffling after them.
Molly stands behind an ironing board, one hand wrapped around a small bundle, the other resting on top of a nearby dresser. Her head darts up when she hears footsteps shuffling along the carpet.Β
βThink these belong to you.β
The boys have taken a liking to you. You canβt imagine why. They cling onto your legs the minute you step into the open kitchen door and babble a thousand innocent questions in your direction without cessation.
Itβs good. Idle hands make great feeding grounds for nervous breakdowns.
Mollyβs got you peeling potatoes by the time Arthur and Remus get back. Heβs working as a sort of farmhand, youβve learned. Though the Weasleys arenβt really farmers, so youβre not sure how that works. But Arthurβs always fancied himself quite the handyman, so odds are heβs got things brewing. Plenty of farmers around these parts anyway, bound to be plenty of work to be done.Β
The spuds rest in a net bag in front of you, a muddy brownish colour with green and yellow eyes poking through the gaps in the mesh. Mollyβs upstairs trying to give the children a bath. Judging by the shrieks and howls echoing down the stairwell, itβs not going very well.
Mollyβs left some record on, some woman warbling out of tune on a track that is ninety-five per cent harp. Itβs got you dissociating, hands moving without thought, carving strips of potato skins onto a board in a steady rhythm. Tuber after tuber gets tossed into the pot. The ever-lasting scent of manure from the nearby fields doesnβt agree with your insides yet, and you can taste the bile on your tongue as the smell of starch and water from the skins hit your nose.Β
Midsummer months bring heavy air, slick with sweetness and humidity and the type of heat that makes your clothes stick to every crevice and plane of you with sweat. You thought it was just you; just a summerβs day of physical labour in a house with terrible ventilation, but the air that hit your cheeks as you stuck your head out of a window in the stairwell was even warmer than the stale air inside. Right now, in the late evening when the fever breaks and a cool shade begins to descend over the fields, it feels like being let out of a car thatβs been left in the sun for too long. Flesh on your cheeks, arms, and legs burning and swollen with warmth, you heave the back door open and inhale deeply through the nose, hand resting on the handle of the door to ground you.Β
Thereβs that smell in the air that you only get in warm, humid places. It settles in your belly and calms your nausea. The bugs donβt even cross your mind. Bugs be damned. The setting sun is painting streaks of orange and pink over the cloudy skies. It feels like a dream, something not quite real, after months of being unable to feel your fingers and toes from piercing frost. For a moment, you feel like the sun could swallow you whole, pick you up and lift you and bring you in on yourself. Youβre not sure how long you linger in the doorway; could be a minute, could be half an hour.
Your chores beckon, and you move to sit at the kitchen table. The soft strumming of the harp in the background seems less intrusive now; maybe itβs because the singer hasnβt sung a note in a minute. The pot begins to fill slowly, and your fingers begin to prune. A bead of sweat trickles down your temple but disappears before it can reach your cheek.
βThought I might find you here.β
Shit.Β You suck in a sharp breath, droplets of crimson trickling down the crease of your thumb. You stick the throbbing digit in your mouth, wincing at the starch residue from the skins.Β
From the corner of your eye, you see him pull a tissue out from a nearby box on the counter. You almost trip on your skirts as you lurch to your feet to grab the handles and heave the pot of potatoes onto the hob, threatening to slosh water all over the chipped tiles in your haste to avoid him trying to give it to you. But he lingers after you, coming up to lean against the counter beside you.Β
Heβs trying. Somewhere, deep down, youΒ knowΒ heβs trying. The fact that heβs even talking to you is something, let alone the tissue hanging limply in his outstretched hand. But you canβt find it in you to pretend that youβre in the mood. Maybe youβre overtired. Maybeβ¦ maybe itβs something else. You yank the tissue out of his grasp unceremoniously, avoiding looking at his face and pressing it to your skin after rinsing it in the sink.
βSo,β Remus says slowly, quietly feigning nonchalance as you wrap the tissue around your thumb, βwhat are you doing here, then?β
When he talks, itβs like heβs trying not to speak too loud. Everything sounds like itβs being murmured in your ear. You half expect to feel his breath on your neck. You remind yourself that heβs got some nerve talking to you in the first place. You purse your lips.
βWhat areΒ youΒ doing here?β
Something changes in Remusβ eyes, then. Itβs like youβve broken some sort of ice.
βIf Iβve done something to offend you,β he begins, eyeing you with calculated caution. Like heβs testing the waters. βOr said somethingβ¦β
βThen Iβll know you havenβt changed,β you supply.Β
You can feel his eyes on you as you turn to the kitchen table and he moves, but he doesnβt follow you, instead lingering in the open space of the kitchen floor. He watches as you scrape peelings into the half-full bucket near the stove and grab its handle, almost yanking it off with the force of it. He makes a point of dipping his head slightly and cocking it to the side as you dry your hands aggressively with a fraying kitchen towel so as to better look you straight in the eye. He keeps his eyes on you unapologetically as you pass him, pushing through to the back door to make your way to the garden.Β
You canβt tell if he follows you out. You donβt want to turn around to look. You stalk towards the compost heap on the far side of the field, a shabby thing held up by rotting planks of wood, poorly nailed together. Must be Arthurβs handiwork. Everything he lays his hands on begins to tear at the seams as soon as heβs done. Heβs got a copy of some DIY manual from 1958 proudly displayed in the sitting room; its spine has almost fully disintegrated and the letters on the front have faded from years opposite a south-facing window, but it remains surrounded by trinkets and charms like a holy book on the mantelpiece.Β
Gnats buzz around your ears. You slop the contents of the bucket onto the growing heap and turn, all too quickly, and nearly jump out of your skin when you see him directly in front of you. The bucket clatters dully against the grass as only plastic can, hitting the ground with the edge of its curved lip and bouncing off behind him.Β
βHeard youβre living here, now. Permanentlyβ
βHearing all sorts of things, you are,β you mutter, almost out of breath as you push past him again and stoop to retrieve the bucket.Β
He beats you to it, snatching it just out of your reach.
βSomething about you needing to get away from something?β
βWhat do you care.β
Swipe. Miss.Β
βOf course I care,β he drawls, walking backwards with quick, hurried steps to stay ahead of you as you move to lunge for the bucket. βWhat, your folks finally given up on ya?β
βWell youβd know all about that, wouldnβt you?β
Itβs a nasty thing to say. Itβs really nasty. So nasty it makes you feel repulsed that you could even formulate such a thought, let alone choose to say it out loud. BecauseΒ heΒ was at least partly joking, and thereβs no way you can spin it so you donβt look like a horrible, horrible person. His feet stumble as his expression falls, face becoming slack. And in that moment he looks every bit the beautiful, tormented twenty-five year old he is. Golden, freckled skin glows in the setting sun; bright green eyes pained and beaten.
Then he pulls himself together.Β
βSee you havenβt changed either.β
Thatβs a bit uncalled for. Youβve never had a go at him because of his parents before, and you donβt appreciate the insinuation. It causes you physical pain that he clocked you on the first try, though. It annoys you. Why is he pretending he knows anything about you? Your skin begins to burn again, and your eyes threaten to puff up like youβve been stung.Β
You snatch the bucket out of his hands and stalk back to the main house.Β
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His eyes trapped yours in their vice-like grip as he stared up at you, fingers brushing against the hem of your jeans, and you swallowed heavily. You felt the rush of alcohol in your head fizzle out into smoke and embers as you sobered up quicker than you ever have in your life.
"Are you sure?"
You swallowed again. Nodded.
There was a small twitch in his eyebrows, and he narrowed his gaze. "It'll hurt."
Despite your heartbeat drowning out all sounds around you, despite the cold sweat on the back of your neck, despite the knowledge that you'll probably regret this - whatever this actually was - in the morning, you smiled.
"Then I guess I'll just have to hold your hand."
{personal comment: This does something to me, I canβt even explain it, but I enjoyed it so much and I would love to read more}
summary: it's the weekend of your town's annual valentine's day carnival and you go with your group of friends, though you can't help but be sad you don't have someone special in your life. your friend, and fellow third wheel, bucky barnes makes it his mission to give you a valentine's day you won't soon forgetβand show you how special you are to him.
{personal comment: I live for a good friends to lovers and this is perfect. Bucky is such a sweetheart and I got all the feels during reading}
Summary:Β Bucky was having a hard time expressing his feelings about finally being free from the Winter Soldier program. To help him out, you suggested writing a letter to his future self and burying it in a time capsule to visit this moment again in the future. The plan was to open the time capsule five years from now. That was until Thanos showed up.
[personal comment: I love reading about Bucky in Wakanda and this amazing piece made me feel so many things at once. It mainly made me cry but itβs so beautiful, I love it so much}
Summary: Maybe it was a bit naive to think moving in with your best friend and long-time crush, Bucky Barnes, was going to be some smooth road that led to an admittance of mutual feelings for one another and a happily-ever-after ending, wrapped up nicely in a bow. Naive indeed; especially when you have to consider the fact that Bucky is the biggest womanizer you know.
{personal comment: My heart broke and healed again during reading this. Itβs perfectly written and means so much to me. I come back to this fic from time to time}
Summary: βDonβt ever do that again.β It would sound like his usual chastising, but Buckyβs voice is soft. If you werenβt crying so hard, struggling to catch your breath, maybe you would hear the note of fear within his words. βDonβt care how mad you get, donβt care how much I piss you off. You donβt go running off into the woods where I canβt find you, Star. Never again.β
You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, right above where his heart lay beating in his chest, and hope he realizes that itβs a promise. A swear.
{personal comment: This is so magical somehow and I love it so much. Bucky growing soft and protective always has me weak}
Summary: bucky hated his job just as much, if not more, than you did. but if you wanted to live the remainder of your lives together comfortably, you'd both have to stick it out. which included him having to fight your ex husband.
{personal comment: I've been going through so much while reading this fic, itβs truly beautiful. Bucky's love for the reader and the remorse for hurting her by getting hurt himself was so touching}
Summary: Sick and tired of your many recent bad dates, youβre dreading yet another Valentineβs Day alone. When Bucky offers to show you what a night out is supposed to look like according to him, you get to experience what itβs like to date your best friend.
{personal comment: Bucky is so charming and sweet and that date was amazing. I really enjoyed reading it}
Summary: Youβre just a clueless new medical student. Youβre not equipped to deal with charming, witty, handsome doctors. Especially not ones with pretty blue eyes that make you weak in the knees.
{personal comment: I'm all in for Bucky as a doctor and this was lovely written}
Summary: A sudden breakup causes you to feel self-doubt and insecurity about your situation. Fortunately, itβs nothing your sweet roommate and a little Legally Blonde canβt fix.
{personal comment: Bucky is so attentive and sweet, it made me yearn for him so much}
Summary: Apparently, when you stay in the honeymoon suite, the husband and the ring on your left hand come with the package. *terms and conditions apply. refunds are not issued.
{personal comment: The beginning had me hooked already and charming and flirty Bucky is a blessing. I really enjoyed this}
Summary: Bucky spends more time out of his dorm than in it with how much his roommate amorously makes love to his girlfriend. Luckily, his cute across-the-hall neighbor is generous about lending her place to him. Buckyβs unsure if he wants to hug or kiss his roommate for putting him in the situation he is in now.Β
{personal comment: I enjoyed reading this, and Bucky being so cute}
Summary: Cuddles from Bucky Barnes was probably one of the greatest things ever. But it was difficult to prove that point true in the middle of a heatwave while the apartment air conditioner was broken. Good thing he has a cold metal arm.
{personal comment: This is so wholesome and sweet, the perfect amount of fluff}
Summary: You're just doing your job as the local vigilante in new york, why can't bucky barnes leave you alone? Spoiler alert: He is very much in love with you, even though he has never seen your face.
{personal comment: This was nice to read, I enjoyed their interactions}
Summary: The Diamondback Saloon and Hotel has always attracted bad men, and Bucky Barnes happens to be one of them
{personal comment: It was so thrilling to read this, the built up to the angst is amazing and I've been on edge the whole time reading this. I'm in love with this and the writing style and it deserves so much more recognition}
Summary: After hearing you begging Steve to pretend to be your fake boyfriend to keep your family off your back, Bucky quickly jumps at the chance to play your boyfriend even though youβre a hundred percent sure he hates you. What could possibly go wrong?
{personal comment: Bucky is such a charmer, but also so perceptive and soft. This gave me the feels, I really liked it}
Summary: Being assigned roommates with Bucky. He's a giant and looks like he's a bully, but he's actually so shy and soft.
{personal comment: Bucky being a cute, but oblivious idiot always is endearing. Felt bad for the reader throughout, but I'm glad it turned out so sweet}
Summary: A court-mandated therapy session brings you and Bucky back together after months of not speaking, bringing up memories of the mission that fucked everything up in the first place.
{personal comment: I feel like I just watched a movie. This is truly a masterpiece. The angst, the writing style, the reader's sarcasm and the way Bucky speaks his mind at the end - so beautiful}
Summary: You've been in love with your best friend Bucky Barnes since fourth grade, but to him, you're just his best friend. It's New Year's Eve, maybe tonight will be different.
{personal comment: This got me so excited at the end, Bucky made me swoon}
Summary: When you come back from the blip in the graveyard having just been at your grandmotherβs funeral, the cemetery seems like the safest place to be. Cleaning old gravestones had certainly never been a dream of yours, but now you find yourself there most days, scraping dirt and moss and algae from stones of people long dead and most likely long forgotten. It also doesn't hurt that a certain blue-eyed super soldier visits the cemetery weekly, placing flowers over two plots.
{personal comment: I didnβt really know what to expect the first time starting this, but it really moved me in a way I canβt explain. Bucky is so genuine and it was lovely to read about the way they bonded}
Summary: Steve's getting married, and as much as it thrills you that one-third of your 'to the end of the line' trio is getting hitched, it also fills you with dread at the prospect of your ex-fiance also being on the guest list. Luckily for you, the other third of your trio (who you are most certainly, absolutely not in love with) has a plan. A childhood friends-to-lovers, fake dating AU fic.
{personal comment: Itβs perfect and utterly beautiful in so many aspects and I felt so deeply. Bless Bucky for being the best man to only exist in fiction, but I won't ever let go of him, or this fic}
Summary: moving into an apartment to get away from your last relationship was fun all fun and games until you met your extremely attractive across-the-hall neighbor, who makes awesome cookies and even better novels.
{personal comment: This was exciting and also really interesting. I was invested, really sweet fic}
Summary: As much of an expert as you were in pain, Bucky Barnes had introduced you to a novel strain, a kind of pain that encased your entire being down to the last atom, the kind of pain that left you breathless and sated, and yet still, wanting more.
{personal comment: I love to read about Bucky in Wakanda and this really hit me deep. Itβs raw and geniune and just so insanely beautiful, I needed to take a break off the internet after that to fix my thoughts and feelings}
Summary: Drunk jealous Bucky cockblocking the reader bc of his big dumb feelings
{personal comment: All the emotions portrayed and felt were so perfectly captured and I felt like watching a movie. The descriptions, the metaphors... Itβs just truly amazing}